Forgetting all about Denisov and not wanting them to have any warning of his arrival, Rostov flung off his fur coat and tiptoed quickly into the big, dark reception-hall. Nothing had changed – the same card tables, the same chandelier with its cover on . . . but someone had seen him, and before he could get to the drawing-room something hurtled out of a side door and overwhelmed him with a deluge of hugging and kissing. A second figure, then a third dashed in through two other doors; more hugs, more kisses, more shouts and tears of joy. Papa, Natasha, Petya . . . he couldn’t tell who was who or who was where. Everybody was shouting and talking and kissing him, all at the same time. Only his mother was missing – as he suddenly noticed.
‘I just didn’t know . . . Nicky . . . My darling boy!’
‘Here he is . . . our boy . . . my darling Kolya . . . Hasn’t he changed!’
‘Get some candles! Let’s have some tea!’
‘Oh, give me a kiss!’
‘My dear darling . . . me too.’
Sonya, Natasha, Petya, Anna Mikhaylovna, Vera and the old count were all hugging him, and then the servants and the maids flocked into the room, filling it with their chatter and all their oohs and ahs.
Petya swung from his legs yelling, ‘Me too!’
Natasha, who had grabbed him to herself and smothered his face with kisses, now hopped away, seized the hem of his jacket and skipped up and down on one spot like a goat, splitting their ears with her shrieks.
On every side were loving eyes, glittering tears of joy and lips hungry for kisses.
Sonya too, as red as a beetroot, clung to his arm and positively beamed at him, gazing blissfully into those eyes of his which she had missed so much. Sonya had just turned sixteen and she looked very pretty, especially at this moment of eager, rapturous excitement. She gazed at him, unable to take her eyes off him, grinning and breathless. He glanced at her thankfully, but still he was looking and waiting for someone else – the old countess still hadn’t appeared.
Footsteps were heard suddenly outside the door. They were so rapid that they could hardly be his mother’s – but they were. In she came wearing a new dress that he hadn’t seen before, obviously made while he had been away. Everybody let go of him, and he ran across to her. When they came together, she sank down on his chest, sobbing. Quite incapable of looking up, she could do nothing but press her face into the cold braiding of his hussar’s jacket. Denisov, who had stolen in unnoticed, stood there looking at them and rubbing his eyes.
‘Vasily Denisov, fwiend of your son,’ he said, introducing himself to the count, who had turned to him with a quizzical look.
‘You’re most welcome. I’ve heard all about you,’ said the count, kissing and embracing Denisov. ‘Nikolay wrote to us . . . Natasha, Vera, look who’s here – Denisov.’
The same blissfully happy faces turned to the tousled figure of Denisov with his black moustache and swarmed round him.
‘Darling Denisov,’ squealed Natasha, beside herself with delight, and she lost no time in dashing over to hug him and kiss him. Everyone was embarrassed by Natasha’s behaviour. Denisov reddened too, but with a smile he took Natasha’s hand and kissed it.
Denisov was conducted to the room prepared for him, while the Rostovs all gathered about their little Nikolay in the sitting-room. The old countess sat beside him, clasping him by the hand; not a minute passed without her bestowing a kiss on it. The others crowded round, drinking in every movement, every glance, every word he uttered; they couldn’t take their eager and adoring eyes off him. His brother and sisters squabbled over him, struggling for the seat nearest to him and fighting for the privilege of bringing him tea, a handkerchief, a pipe.
Rostov was very happy with all the love showered upon him. But that first moment of their meeting had been sheer bliss and now his happiness seemed somehow reduced, as if more could be expected, more and more again.
Next morning, following their long drive, the new arrivals slept through until ten o’clock.
The adjoining room was one big mess – swords, bags, sabretaches, open trunks and dirty boots everywhere. Two pairs of nice clean boots with spurs had recently been put by the wall. The servants brought in wash-basins, hot shaving water and their clothes, neatly brushed. The room reeked of tobacco and young men.
‘Hey, Gwishka, bwing me a pipe!’ shouted Vaska Denisov in a husky voice. ‘Wostov, time to get up!’
Rostov, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, lifted his head from the hot pillow, his hair all over the place.
‘Why? What time is it?’
‘You’re late. It’s nearly ten o’clock,’ answered Natasha’s voice, and from the next room came the rustling of starched skirts, the sound of whispering and girlish laughter. The door was open half an inch and through it came a flash of something blue, a play of ribbons, black hair and merry faces. Natasha had come along with Sonya and Petya to see if he was up yet.
