Petya had been strutting up and down in silence.
‘If I were in Nikolinka’s place, I’d have killed a lot more of those Frenchmen,’ he said, ‘they’re such beasts! I’d have killed them till there was a regular heap of them/ Petya went on.
‘Hold your tongue, Petya, what a silly you are! . . .’
‘I’m not a silly; people are silly who cry for trifles/ said Petya.
‘Do you remember him?’ Natasha asked suddenly, after a moment’s silence. Sonya smiled.
‘Do I remember Nikolinka?’
‘No, Sonya, but do you remember him so as to remember him thoroughly, to remember him quite/ said Natasha with a strenuous gesture, as though she were trying to put into her words the most earnest meaning. ‘And I do remember Nikolinka, I remember him/ she said. ‘But I don’t remember Boris. I don’t remember him a bit . . .’
‘What? You don’t remember Boris?’ Sonya queried with surprise.
‘I don’t mean I don’t remember him. I know what he’s like, but not as I remember Nikolinka. I shut my eyes and I can see him, but not Boris’ (she shut her eyes), ‘no, nothing!’
‘Ah, Natasha!’ said Sonya, looking solemnly and earnestly at her friend, as though she considered her unworthy to hear what she meant to say, and was saying it to some one else with whom joking was out of the question. ‘I have come to love your brother once for all, and whatever were to happen to him and to me, I could never cease to love him all my life.’
With inquisitive, wondering eyes, Natasha gazed at Sonya, and she did not speak. She felt that what Sonya was saying was the truth, that there was love such as Sonya was speaking of. But Natasha had never known anything like it. She believed that it might, be so, but she did not understand it.
‘Shall you write to him?’ she asked. Sonya sank into thought. How she should write to Nikolay, and whether she ought to write to him, was a question that worried her. Now that he was an officer, and a wounded hero, would it be nice on her part to remind him of herself, and as it were of the obligations he had taken on himself in regard to her. ‘I don’t know. I suppose if he writes to me I shall write/ she said, blushing.
‘And you won’t be ashamed to write to him?’
Sonya smiled,
‘No.’
WARANDPEACE 215
‘And I should be ashamed to write to Boris, and Tm not going to write.’
‘But why should you be ashamed?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. I feel awkward, ashamed.’
‘I know why she’d be ashamed,’ said Petya, offended at Natasha’s previous remark, ‘because she fell in love with that fat fellow in spectacles’ (this was how Petya used to describe his namesake, the new Count Bezuhov); ‘and now she’s in love with that singing fellow’ (Petya meant Natasha’s Italian singing-master), ‘that’s why she’s ashamed.’
‘Petya, you’re a stupid,’ said Natasha.
‘No stupider than you, ma’am,’ said nine-year-old Petya, exactly as though he had been an elderly brigadier.
The countess had been prepared by Anna Mihalovna’s hints during dinner. On returning to her room she had sat down in a low chair with her eyes fixed on the miniature of her son, painted on the lid of her snuff-box, and the tears started into her eyes. Anna Mihalovna, with the letter, approached the countess’s room on tiptoe, and stood still at the door.
‘Don’t come in,’ she said to the old count, who was following her; ‘later,’ and she closed the door after her. The count put his ear to the keyhole, and listened.
At first he heard the sound of indifferent talk, then Anna Mihalovna’s voice alone, uttering a long speech, then a shriek, then silence, then both voices talking at once with joyful intonations, then there were steps, and Anna Mihalovna opened the door. Her face wore the look of pride of an operator who has performed a difficult amputation, and invites the public in to appreciate his skill.
‘It is done,’ she said to the count triumphantly, motioning him to the countess, who was holding in one hand the snuff-box with the portrait, in the other the letter, and pressing her lips first to one and then to the other. On seeing the count, she held out her arms to him, embraced his bald head, and looked again over the bald head at the letter and the portrait, and in order again to press them to her lips, slightly repelled the bald head from her. Vera, Natasha, Sonya, and Petya came into the room, and the reading of the letter began. The letter briefly described the march and the two battles in which Nikolushka had taken part, and the receiving of his commission, and said that he kissed the hands of his mamma and papa, begging their blessing, and sent kisses to Vera, Natasha, and Petya. He sent greetings, too, to Monsieur Schelling and Madame Schoss, and his old nurse, and begged them to kiss for him his darling Sonya, whom he still loved and thought of the same as ever. On hearing this, Sonya blushed till the tears came into her eyes. And unable to stand the eyes fixed upon her, she ran into the big hall, ran about with a flushed and smiling face, whirled round and round and ducked down, making her skirts into a balloon. The countess was crying.
