al looking now at his kind and sad face, she suddenly understood the
r Why, count, why?’ she almost cried all at once, involuntarily moving
nirer to him. ‘Why, do tell me. You must tell me.’ He was mute. ‘I do
n. know, count, your
why’
she went on. ‘But I am sad, I ... I will
on that to you. You mean for some reason to deprive me of our old
fnndship. And that hurts me.’ There were tears in her eyes and in her
vce. ‘I have had so little happiness in my life that every loss is hard
fi me . . . Excuse me, good-bye,’ she suddenly burst into tears, and
vs going out of the room. Princess! stay, for God’s sake,’ he cried, trying to stop her. ‘Princess!’ She looked round. For a few seconds they gazed mutely in each other’s
e;s, and the remote and impossible became all at once close at hand,
pssible and inevitable. VII 1
the autumn of 1813, Nikolay married Princess Marya, and with his
\fe, and mother, and Sonya, took up his abode at Bleak Hills. Within four years he had paid off the remainder of his debts without
i
ling his wife’s estates, and coming into a small legacy on the death of
cousin, he repaid the loan he had borrowed from Pierre also. In another three years, by 1820, Nikolay had so well managed his
jcuniary affairs that he was able to buy a small estate adjoining Bleak
lills, and was opening negotiations for the repurchase of his ancestral
itate of Otradnoe, which was his cherished dream. Though he took up the management of the land at first from necessity,
i: soon acquired such a passion for agriculture, that it became his
jtvourite and almost his exclusive interest. Nikolay was a plain farmer,
no did not like innovations, especially English ones, just then coming
to vogue, laughed at all theoretical treatises on agriculture, did not care
r factories, for raising expensive produce, or for expensive imported
ed. He did not, in fact, make a hobby of any one part of the work, but
ipt the welfare of the
estate
as a whole always before his eyes. The
iject most prominent to his mind in the estate was not the azote nor the
,:ygen in the soil or the atmosphere, not a particular plough nor manure,
it the principal agent by means of which the azote and the oxygen and
e plough and the manure were all made effectual—that is, the labourer,
e peasant. When Nikolay took up the management of the land, and
:gan to go into its different branches, the peasant attracted his chief
tention. He looked on the peasant, not merely as a tool, but also as an
id in himself, and as his critic. At first he studied the peasant attentively,
ying to understand what he wanted, what he thought good and bad;
id he only made a pretence of making arrangements and giving orders,
hile he was in reality learning from the peasants their methods and 1078
WAR AND PEACE their language and their views of what was good and bad. And it w, .
only when he understood the tastes and impulses of the peasant, when
had learned to speak his speech and to grasp the hidden meaning behi
his words, when he felt himself in alliance with him, that he began bole
to direct him—to perform, that is, towards him the office expected ■'
him. And Nikolay’s management produced the most brilliant resul On taking over the control of the property, Nikolay had at once
some unerring gift of insight appointed as bailiff, as village elder, and
delegate the very men whom the peasants would have elected themselvi
had the choice been in their hands, and the authority once given the
was never withdrawn. Before investigating the chemical constituents
manure, or going into ‘debit and credit’ (as he liked sarcastically to c;
book-keeping), he found out the number of cattle the peasants possesse
and did his utmost to increase the number. He kept the peasants’ famili
together on a large scale, and would not allow them to split up into sep
rate households. The indolent, the dissolute, and the feeble he was equal
hard upon and tried to expel them from the community. At the sowii
and the carrying of the hay and corn, he watched over his own and ti i
peasants’ fields with absolutely equal care. And few landowners had fieli
so early and so well sown and cut, and few had such crops as Nikola He did not like to have anything to do with the house-serfs, he calif
them
parasites,
and everybody said that he demoralised and spoiled therl
When any order had to be given in regard to a house-serf, especial'
when one had to be punished, he was always in a state of indecision ar
asked advice of every one in the house. But whenever it was possible i
send a house-serf for a soldier in place of a peasant, he did so withot
the smallest compunction. In all his dealings with the peasants, he nevi
experienced the slightest hesitation. Every order he gave would, he kne\
be approved by the greater majority of them. He never allowed himself either to punish a man by adding to h
burdens, or to reward him by lightening his tasks simply at the promp
ing of his own wishes. He could not have said what his standard was Often talking of some failure or irregularity, he would complain
c
‘our Russian peasantry,’ and he imagined that he could not bear tb
peasants. But with his whole soul he did really love ‘cur Russian peasantry,’ an
their ways; and it was through that he had perceived and adopted tb
only method of managing the land which could be productive of goo
results. Countess Marya was jealous of this passion of her husband’s for agri
culture, and regretted she could not share it. But she was unable t
comprehend the joys and disappointments he met with in that world apar
that was so alien to her. She could not understand why he used to be s
particularly eager and happy when after getting up at dawn and spendin
the whole morning in the fields or the threshing-floor he came back t ti with her from the sowing, the mowing, or the harvest. She could not
iderstand why he was so delighted when he told her with enthusiasm of
te well-to-do, thrifty peasant Matvey Ermishin, who had been up all
right with his family, carting his sheaves, and had all harvested when no
ce else had begun carrying. She could not understand why, stepping out
c the window on to the balcony, he smiled under his moustaches and
inked so gleefully when a warm, fine rain began to fall on his young oats
vat were suffering from the drought, or why, when a menacing cloud blew
cer in mowing or harvest time, he would come in from the barn red,
snburnt, and perspiring, Moth the smell of wormwood in his hair, and
i.bbing his hands joyfully would say: ‘Come, another day of this and my
]t, and the peasants’ too, will all be in the barn.’ j Still less could she understand how it was that with his good heart
iid everlasting readiness to anticipate her wishes, he would be thrown
anost into despair when she brought him petitions from peasants or
eir wives who had appealed to her to be let off tasks, why it was that
>, her good-natured Nikolay, obstinately refused her, angrily begging
r not to meddle in his business. She felt that he had a world apart,
at was intensely dear to him, governed by laws of its own which she did
)t understand. Sometimes trying to understand him she would talk to him of the good
ark he was doing in striving for the good of his serfs; but at this he was
jigry and answered: ‘Not in the least; it never even entered my head;
id for their good I would not lift my little finger. That’s all romantic
insense and old wives’ cackle—all that doing good to one’s neighbour,
don’t want our children to be beggars; I want to build up our fortunes
my lifetime; that is all. And to do that one must have discipline, one
ust have strictness ... So there!’ he would declare, clenching his
inguine fist. ‘And justice too—of course,’ he would add, ‘because if the
easant is naked and hungry, and has but one poor horse, he can do no
jod for himself or me.’ And doubtless because Nikolay did not allow himself to entertain the
lea that he was doing anything for the sake of others, or for the sake
i virtue, everything he did was fruitful. His fortune rapidly increased;
le neighbouring serfs came to beg him to purchase them, and long after
is death the peasantry preserved a reverent memory of his rule. ‘He was
master . . . The peasants’ welfare first and then his own. And to be
ire he would make no abatements. A real good master—that’s what
e was! ’
