War And Peace полностью

‘Yes, maybe I am in love with a poor girl,’ Nikolay said to himself. ‘And what am I supposed to do sacrifice my feelings and my honour to make us all rich? How could Mamma say such a thing? Sonya’s poor, so I mustn’t love her,’ he thought, ‘I mustn’t respond to her faithful, devoted love. And one thing’s certain – I’ll be happier with her than any number of dolls like Julie. I can always sacrifice my feelings for the benefit of my family,’ he said to himself, ‘but I can’t dictate what my feelings should be. If I do love Sonya, that feeling is stronger and more valuable to me than anything in the world.’

Nikolay did not go to Moscow and the countess did not take up the subject of marriage with him again. It was with great sadness, tinged with bitterness, that she watched the signs of a growing attachment between her son and Sonya, the girl with no dowry. She blamed herself for doing it, but she couldn’t help picking on Sonya and nagging at her, often pulling her up for no good reason and addressing her as ‘my dear young lady’. What infuriated the kind-hearted countess most of all was that this wretched, dark-eyed niece was so meek and mild, so good, so devoted and grateful to her benefactors, and so faithful, constant and unselfish in her love for Nikolay, that there was no fault to be found with her.

Nikolay was coming towards the end of his home leave. From Prince Andrey came a fourth letter, this time from Rome, informing them that he would have been on his way back to Russia long ago, but for the fact that his wound had suddenly reopened in the warm climate, which made it necessary to delay his return until early next year. Natasha was no less in love with her fiancé, no less consoled by her love, and no less eager to accept all the pleasures that life could offer, but by the end of the fourth month of their separation she began to suffer from fits of uncontrollable depression. She felt sorry for herself, sorry that all this time was being wasted, passing by uselessly, no good to anyone, while she felt so eager to love and be loved.

The Rostovs’ was not a happy household.

CHAPTER 9

Christmas came, but apart from the High Mass, the tedious formality of exchanging greetings with neighbours and servants and everyone putting on new clothes, nothing unusual happened to mark the festival, whereas outside in the still air with twenty degrees of frost, the dazzling sunshine by day and the bright, starlit wintry sky at night seemed to be crying out for something special to celebrate the season.

On the third day of Christmas week, after lunch, all the members of the household went off to their various rooms. It was the day’s lowest ebb of boredom. Nikolay, who had been out calling on neighbours that morning, had gone for a nap in the sitting-room. The old count had retired to his study for a rest. In the drawing-room Sonya was sitting at a round table copying a pattern. The countess was playing patience. Nastasya Ivanovna, the buffoon, sat by the window with two old ladies, a picture of dejection. Natasha came in, walked over to Sonya to see what she was doing, then went across to her mother and stood there saying nothing.

‘What are you doing wandering about like a lost soul?’ said her mother. ‘What do you want?’

‘Him . . . I want him, now, this minute,’ said Natasha, with a steely glint in her eyes and no smile. The countess looked up and stared at her daughter.

‘Don’t look at me like that, Mamma. Please don’t. You’ll make me cry.’

‘Sit down here. Come and sit by me,’ said the countess.

‘Mamma, I want him. What am I doing here wasting away like this, Mamma?’ Her voice faltered, tears fell from her eyes, and in order to hide them she turned away abruptly and went out of the room. She went into the sitting-room, where she stood for a moment in thought and then went on into the maids’ room. There an old maid-servant was scolding a young girl who had just run indoors from the cold and was now out of breath.

‘That’s enough playing about,’ she was saying. ‘There’s a time and a place for everything.’

‘Oh, leave her alone, Kondratyevna,’ said Natasha. ‘All right, Mavrusha, off you go.’ And after giving Mavrusha her freedom, Natasha crossed the great hall and went to the vestibule. An old footman and two young ones were playing cards. They broke off and got to their feet at the entrance of the young mistress. ‘What shall I do with them?’ Natasha wondered.

‘Oh yes, Nikita, I want you to go somewhere . . . (Where shall I send him?) Er, yes, go outside and fetch me a cockerel, please. And you, Misha, bring me some oats.²

‘A few oats is it you want?’ said Misha, with cheerful readiness.

‘Just do as you’re told, and do it now,’ the old man urged him.

‘Fyodor, you can get me a piece of chalk.’

Since she happened to be passing the butler’s pantry she asked for the samovar to be lit, though it was nowhere near the right time for this.