‘Arinka, sithee, she be sittin’ sideways! Sideways sittin’, an’ ’er skirt all danglin’ down . . . And look at yon little horn!’
‘Lor’ bless ’e, an’ a knife too!’
‘Reminds me o’them Tatar womenfolk!’
‘ ’Ow can tha do it wi’out fallin’ off?’ said the cheekiest one, straight in Natasha’s face.
‘Uncle’ got off his horse at the steps of his little wooden house with its overgrown garden, surveyed the servant body and told them in no uncertain terms what to do – anyone not required was to disappear while the rest did everything necessary for the reception of his guests and the hunt servants.
They scurried away in every direction. ‘Uncle’ helped Natasha down from her horse, and gave her his arm up the rickety wooden steps.
The inside of the house, with its unplastered timber walls, was not the last word in cleanliness; nothing suggested that the main aim of its inhabitants was to keep the place spotless, though there were no signs of real neglect. There was a smell of fresh apples as you entered, and the walls were hung with the skins of wolves and foxes.
‘Uncle’ led his guests through into a little hall furnished with a folding-table and red chairs, then into a drawing-room with a round birch-wood table and a sofa, and on into his study, with its shabby sofa, threadbare carpet and several portraits – of Suvorov, ‘Uncle’ in military uniform and his father and mother. The study reeked of tobacco and dogs.
Once in the study ‘Uncle’ invited his guests to sit down and make themselves at home, and then left the room. Rugay came in, his back still plastered with mud, and went to lie on the sofa, cleaning himself with tongue and teeth. There was a corridor leading from the study, where they could hear the sound of women laughing and hushed voices coming from behind a screen with ragged curtains. Natasha, Nikolay and Petya took off their outdoor clothes and sat down on the sofa. Petya leant on one elbow and promptly fell asleep. Natasha and Nikolay sat there and said nothing. Their faces were burning and they were ravenous, but they felt very bright and cheerful. They glanced at each other. (Now the hunt was over and they were indoors, Nikolay felt no further need to demonstrate his masculine superiority over his sister.) Natasha winked at her brother, their mutual glee was uncontainable and they broke out into a great roar of laughter before they could think of a reason for doing so.
After a brief interval in came ‘Uncle’ wearing a Cossack coat, blue breeches and low boots. This mode of dress had left Natasha shocked and amused when ‘Uncle’ had appeared in it at Otradnoye, but now it seemed exactly right and in no way inferior to morning dress and frock-coats. Like the pair of them ‘Uncle’ was also in high spirits. Far from taking exception to their laughter – it never occurred to him that they might be laughing at his life-style – he joined in with the brother and sister, revelling like them in inexplicable glee.
‘Will you look at this young countess here? Fair for the chase! I’ve never seen anyone like her!’ he said, offering Rostov a long-stemmed pipe while filling his own stubby one, with three practised fingers.
‘Out riding all day – enough to tax any man – and still as fresh as a daisy!’
Soon after ‘Uncle’s’ reappearance the door was opened by a serving woman who from the sound of it was walking on bare feet, and in padded a plump, red-cheeked, good-looking woman of forty or so, with a double chin and full red lips, carrying a large heavily laden tray. Her eyes radiated good will and her every gesture spoke of warm hospitality as she looked round all the guests and treated them to a broad smile and a polite curtsey.
For all her exceptional stoutness, which made her bosom and her belly stick out and her head tilt back, this woman (‘Uncle’s’ house-keeper) moved with surprising elegance. She walked over to the table, put the tray down, and with a few skilful movements of her puffy white hands transferred bottles, dishes and snacks to the table-top. This done, she walked off and paused in the doorway for a moment with a smile on her face. ‘Take a good look – it’s me! Now can you understand how “Uncle” lives?’ was what her expression seemed to say to Rostov. Who could have failed to understand? Not only Nikolay, but even Natasha understood ‘Uncle’ now, and what had been meant by that furrowed brow and that smug smile of contentment hovering around his pursed lips as Anisya Fyodorovna had come into the room. On the tray were a bottle of home-made wine, several different kinds of vodka, tiny mushrooms, little rye-cakes made with buttermilk, oozing honey-combs, still and sparkling mead, apples and all sorts of nuts, raw, roasted and steeped in honey. Then Anisya came back in bringing preserves made with honey and sugar, along with ham and a freshly roasted chicken.
