War And Peace полностью

Anisya, needing no second bidding, tripped off on her master’s little errand and came back with his guitar. Without a glance at anyone ‘Uncle’ blew the dust off the instrument, tapped its body with his bony fingers, tuned up and settled himself down in an armchair. Thrusting out his left elbow somewhat theatrically, he gripped the guitar at the bottom of the neck, winked at Anisya and struck up, not with the first notes of ‘My Lady’ but a single chord of the purest tone followed by a smooth and gentle but sturdy rendition of the popular song, ‘Coming down the high road . . .’, picked out in very slow time. Nikolay and Natasha thrilled to the rhythm, the tune and the same steady spirit of joy that emanated from Anisya and her whole personality. Anisya blushed, hid her face in her handkerchief and left the room laughing. ‘Uncle’ went on playing, so sweetly, deliberately, sturdily, gazing with new inspiration at the spot vacated by Anisya. There was a hint of laughter down one side of his face under his grey moustache, and it broadened out as the song went on and the tempo quickened, while his flourishes tore at the heart-strings.

‘Wonderful, Uncle, wonderful! Play it again!’ cried Natasha the moment he had finished. She leapt up from her place and overwhelmed her ‘uncle’ with kisses and hugs. ‘Oh, Nikolay, darling!’ she said, looking round at her brother as if to say, ‘How about that, then?’

Nikolay was equally delighted by ‘Uncle’s’ playing, and ‘Uncle’ soon struck up again. Anisya’s smiling face reappeared in the doorway, and other faces behind her.

Fetching water sweet and clear,

Maiden, stop and linger here . . .

played ‘Uncle’, breaking off with another wild flourish and a single strum, followed by a shrug of the shoulders.

‘Oh, Uncle, darling, please!’ cried Natasha, wailing and imploring as if her life depended on it. ‘Uncle’ got to his feet and suddenly it was as if there were two men in him – the first one treating his merry inner companion to a sombre smile, while the merry companion himself started on the simple but precise business of running through the steps of a folk-dance just about to begin.

‘Come on, my little niece!’ cried the uncle, beckoning to Natasha with the hand that had struck the last chord on the guitar.

Natasha threw off the shawl she had been wrapped in, ran round in front of her ‘uncle’, and stood there waiting, hands on hips, rhythmically jiggling her shoulders.

Here was a young countess, educated by a French émigrée governess – where, when and how had she imbibed the spirit of that peasant dance along with the Russian air she breathed, and these movements which the pas de châle¹ ought to have squeezed out of her long ago? But her movements and the spirit of them were truly Russian, inimitable, unteachable, just what ‘Uncle’ had been hoping for. The moment she took up her stance with such a confident smile, so proud of herself and full of mischievous fun, any misgivings that may have momentarily affected Nikolay and all the onlookers – would she get it all wrong? – were dispelled. Everyone was admiring her.

Her dancing was perfection itself, so beautiful that Anisya, who had been quick to give her the scarf she needed to dance with, chuckled tearfully as she watched the slender, graceful little countess, brought up in silks and velvet in a completely different world, demonstrate her instinctive understanding of all that Anisya stood for, and her father and her mother and her aunt and every last Russian soul.

‘Oh yes, little Countess. Fair for the chase!’ cried ‘Uncle’, laughing with delight as they came to the end of the dance. ‘You’re a niece to be proud of! All we need to do now is find you a nice husband, and then – fair for the chase!’

‘We’ve found one,’ said Nikolay with a smile.

‘Oho!’ said the uncle in some surprise, looking inquiringly at Natasha. Natasha nodded with her own happy smile.

‘And a fine one too!’ she said. But no sooner were the words out of her mouth than a new and different way of thinking and feeling surged up inside her. ‘What did Nikolay’s smile mean when he said, “We’ve found one”? Is he glad, or not? He seems to be thinking my Bolkonsky wouldn’t approve of the fun we’re all having now, or even understand it. Well, he would understand it. Where is he now?’ Natasha wondered with a serious look on her face. But that lasted only a second. ‘I’m not going to think about it. I’m just not,’ she said to herself, and she sat down again with a new smile close to her ‘uncle’, begging him to play something else.

The ‘uncle’ played another song and then a waltz. Then, after a pause, he cleared his throat and launched into his favourite hunting song:

Evening when the light is low,

Deep and even falls the snow . . .