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Book Four

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EARLY in the year 1806 Nikolai Rostov returned home on leave. Denisov was going home to Voronezh and Rostov persuaded him to travel with him as far as Moscow and to stay with him there. Meeting a comrade at the last post-station but one before Moscow, Denisov had drunk three bottles of wine with him, and despite the jolting ruts across the snow-covered road, did not once wake up, on the way to Moscow, but lay at the bottom of the sledge beside Rostov, who grew more and more impatient the nearer they got to Moscow.

‘How much longer? How much longer? Oh, these insufferable streets, shops, bakers’ signboards, street lamps and sledges!’ thought Rostov when their leave-permits had been passed at the town gate, and they had entered Moscow.

‘Denisov! We’re here! He’s asleep,’ he added, leaning forward with his whole body as if in that position he hoped to hasten the speed of the sledge.

Denisov gave no answer.

‘There’s the corner at the crossroads, where the cabman Zakhar has his stand, and there’s Zakhar himself and still the same horse! And here’s the little shop where we used to buy gingerbread! Can’t you hurry up? Now then!’ ‘Which house is it?’ asked the driver.

‘Why that one, right at the end, the big one. Don’t you see? That’s our house,’ said Rostov. ‘Of course it’s our house! Denisov, Denisov! We’re almost there!’ Denisov raised his head, coughed, and made no answer.

‘Dmitri,’ said Rostov to his valet on the box, ‘those lights are in our house, aren’t they?’ ‘Yes, sir, and there’s a light in your father’s study.’

‘Then they’ve not gone to bed yet? What do you think? Remember, don’t forget to put out my new coat,’ added Rostov, fingering his new moustache. ‘Now then, get on,’ he shouted to the driver. ‘Do wake up, Vaska,’ he went on, turning to Denisov, whose head was again nodding. ‘Come, get on! You shall have three rubles for vodka—get on!’ Rostov shouted, when the sledge was only three houses from his door. It seemed to him the horses were not moving at all. At last the sledge bore to the right, drew up at an entrance, and Rostov saw overhead the old familiar cornice with a bit of plaster broken off, the porch, and the post by the side of the pavement. He sprang out before the sledge stopped, and ran into the hall. The house stood cold and silent, as if quite regardless of who had come to it. There was no one in the hall. ‘Oh God! Is everyone all right?’ he thought, stopping for a moment with a sinking heart and then immediately starting to run along the hall and up the warped steps of the familiar staircase. The well-known old door-handle, which always angered the countess when it was not properly cleaned, turned as loosely as ever. A solitary tallow candle burnt in the ante-room.

Old Mikhailo was asleep on the chest. Prokofy, the footman, who was so strong that he could lift the back of the carriage from behind, sat plaiting slippers out of cloth selvedges. He looked up at the opening door and his expression of sleepy indifference suddenly changed to one of delighted amazement.

‘Gracious heavens! The young Count!’ he cried, recognizing his young master. ‘Can it be? My treasure!’ and Prokofy, trembling with excitement rushed towards the drawing-room door, probably in order to announce him, but changing his mind came back and stooped to kiss the young man’s shoulder.

‘All well?’ asked Rostov, drawing away his arm.

‘Yes, thank God! Thank God! Yes! They’ve just finished supper. Let me have a look at you, your Excellency.’ ‘Is everything quite all right?’

‘Thank God, yes!’

Rostov, who had completely forgotten Denisov, not wishing any one to forestall him, threw off his fur coat and ran on tiptoe through the large dark ballroom. All was the same: there were the same old card-tables and the same chandelier with a cover over it; but someone had already seen the young master, and before he had reached the drawing-room something flew out from a side door like a tornado and began hugging and kissing him. Another and yet another creature of the same kind sprang from a second door and a third; more hugging, more kissing, more outcries, and tears of joy. He could not distinguish which was Papa, which Natasha, and which Petya. Everyone shouted, talked, and kissed him at the same time. Only his mother was not there, he noticed that.

‘And I did not know … Nikolushka … My darling … Kolya!’

‘Here he is … our own … Kolya, dear fellow … How he has changed! … Where are the candles? … Tea! …’ ‘And me, kiss me!’

‘Dearest … and me!’

Sonya, Natasha, Petya, Anna Mikhailovna, Vera, and the old count were all hugging him, and the serfs, men and maids, flocked into the room, exclaiming and oh-ing and ah-ing.

Petya, clinging to his legs, kept shouting, ‘And me too!’

Natasha, after she had pulled him down towards her and covered his face with kisses, holding him tight by the skirt of his coat, sprang away and pranced up and down in one place like a goat, and shrieked piercingly.

All around were loving eyes glistening with tears of joy, and all around were lips seeking a kiss.

Sonya too, all rosy red, clung to his arm and, radiant with bliss, looked eagerly towards his eyes, waiting for the look for which she longed. Sonya was now sixteen and she was very pretty, especially at this moment of happy rapturous excitement. She gazed at him, not taking her eyes off him, and smiling and holding her breath. He gave her a grateful look, but was still expectant and looking for someone. The old countess had not yet come. But now steps were heard at the door, steps so rapid that they could hardly be his mother’s.

Yet it was she, dressed in a new gown which he did not know, made since he had left. All the others let him go, and he ran to her. When they met she fell on his breast, sobbing. She could not lift her face, but only pressed it to the cold braiding of his hussar’s jacket. Denisov, who had come into the room unnoticed by anyone, stood there and wiped his eyes at the sight.

‘Vasili Denisov, your son’s friend,’ he said, introducing himself to the count who was looking inquiringly at him.

‘You are most welcome! I know, I know,’ said the count, kissing and embracing Denisov. ‘Nikolushka wrote us … Natasha, Vera, look! Here is Denisov!’ The same happy rapturous faces turned to the shaggy figure of Denisov.

‘Darling Denisov!’ screamed Natasha beside herself with rapture, springing to him, putting her arms round him, and kissing him. This deed of Natasha’s made everybody feel confused. Denisov blushed too, but smiled, and taking Natasha’s hand kissed it.

Denisov was shown to the room prepared for him, and the Rostovs all gathered round Nikolushka in the sitting-room.

The old countess, not letting go of his hand and kissing it every moment, sat beside him: the rest, crowding round him, watched every movement, word, or look of his, never taking their blissfully adoring eyes off him. His brother and sisters struggled for the places nearest to him, and disputed with one another over who should bring him his tea, handkerchief, and pipe.

Rostov was very happy in the love they showed him; but the first moment of meeting had been so beatific that his present joy seemed insufficient, and he kept expecting something more, more, and yet more.

Next morning, after the fatigues of their journey, the travellers slept till ten o’clock.

In the room next their bedroom there was a confusion of sabres, satchels, sabretaches, open portmanteaus, and dirty boots. Two freshly cleaned pairs with spurs had just been placed by the wall. The servants were bringing in jugs and basins, hot water for shaving, and their well-brushed clothes. There was a masculine odour and a smell of tobacco.

‘Hallo, Gwishka—my pipe!’ came Vasili Denisov’s husky voice.

‘Wostov, get up!’

Rostov, rubbing his eyes that seemed glued together, raised his dishevelled head from the hot pillow.

‘Why, is it late?’

‘Late! It’s nearly ten o’clock,’ answered Natasha’s voice. A rustle of starched petticoats and the whispering and laughter of girls’ voices came from the adjoining room. The door was opened a crack, and there was a glimpse of something blue, of ribbons, black hair and merry faces. It was Natasha, Sonya, and Petya, who had come to see whether they were getting up.

‘Nikolenka! Get up!’ Natasha’s voice was again heard at the door.

‘Directly!’

Meanwhile Petya having found and seized the sabres in the outer room, with the delight boys feel at the sight of a military elder brother, and forgetting that it was unbecoming for the girls to see men undressed, opened the bedroom door.

‘Is this your sabre?’ he shouted.

The girls sprang aside. Denisov hid his hairy legs under the blanket, looking with a scared face at his comrade for help. The door having let Petya in, closed again. A sound of laughter came from behind it.

‘Nikolenka! Come out in your dressing-gown!’ said Natasha’s voice.

‘Is this your sabre?’ asked Petya, ‘Or is it yours?’ he said, addressing the black-moustached Denisov with servile deference.

Rostov hurriedly put something on his feet, drew on his dressing-gown, and went out. Natasha had put on one spurred boot and was just getting her foot into the other. Sonya when he came in was twirling round and was about to expand her dress into a balloon and sit down. They were dressed alike in new pale-blue frocks, and were both fresh, rosy, and bright. Sonya ran away, but Natasha, taking her brother’s arm, led him into the sitting-room, where they began talking. They hardly gave one another time to ask questions and give replies concerning a thousand little matters which could not interest anyone but themselves. Natasha laughed at every word he said or that she said herself, not because what they were saying was amusing, but because she felt happy and was unable to control her joy which expressed itself by laughter.

‘Oh, how nice, how splendid!’ she said to everything.

Rostov felt that under the influence of the warm rays of love, that childlike smile which had not once appeared on his face since he left home, now for the first time after eighteen months again brightened his soul and his face.

‘No, but listen,’ she said, ‘now you are quite a man, aren’t you? I’m awfully glad you’re my brother.’ She touched his moustache. ‘I want to know what kind of people you are, you men. Are you like us? No?’ ‘No! Why did Sonya run away?’ asked Rostov.

‘Ah, yes! That’s another whole story! How are you going to speak to her—Thou or you?’* ‘As may happen,’ said Rostov.

‘No, call her you, please! I’ll tell you all about it after.’

‘Yes, what is it?’

‘All right, I’ll tell you now. You know Sonya’s my dearest friend. Such a friend that I burnt my arm for her sake. Look here!’ She pulled up her muslin sleeve and showed him a red scar on her long, slender, delicate arm, high above the elbow on the part that is covered even by a ball-dress.

‘I burnt this to prove my love for her. I just heated a ruler in the fire and pressed it there!’ Sitting on the sofa with the little cushions on its arms, in what used to be his old schoolroom, and looking into Natasha’s wildly bright eyes, Rostov re-entered that world of home and childhood which had no meaning for anyone else, but gave him some of the best joys of his life; and the burning of an arm with a ruler as a proof of love did not seem to him senseless, he understood and was not surprised at it.

‘Well, and is that all?’ he asked.

‘We are such friends, such friends! All that ruler business was just nonsense, but we are friends for ever. She if she loves anyone, does it for life, but I don’t understand that, I forget right away.’ ‘Well, what then?’

‘Well, she loves me and you like that.’

Natasha suddenly blushed.

‘Why, you remember before you went away? … Well, she says you are to forget all that … She says: “I shall love him always, but let him be free.” Isn’t that lovely and noble! Yes, very noble? Isn’t it?’ asked Natasha so seriously and excitedly that it was evident that what she was now saying she had talked of before with tears.

Rostov became thoughtful.

‘I never go back on my word,’ he said. ‘Besides, Sonya is so charming that only a fool would renounce such happiness.’ ‘No, no!’ cried Natasha, ‘she and I have already talked it over. We knew you’d say so. But it won’t do, because you see, if you say that—if you consider yourself bound by your promise—it will seem as if she had not meant it seriously. It makes it as if you were marrying her because you must, and that wouldn’t do at all.’ Rostov saw that it had been well considered by them. Sonya had already struck him by her beauty on the preceding day. Today, when he had caught a glimpse of her, she seemed still more lovely. She was a charming girl of sixteen, evidently passionately in love with him (he did not doubt that for an instant). Why should he not love her now, and even marry her, Rostov thought, but just now there were so many other pleasures and interests before him! ‘Yes, they have taken a wise decision,’ he thought. ‘I must remain free.’ ‘Well then, that’s excellent,’ said he. ‘We’ll talk it over later on. Oh, how glad I am to have you!’ ‘Well, and are you still true to Boris?’ he continued.

‘Oh, what nonsense!’ cried Natasha laughing. ‘I don’t think about him or anyone else, and I don’t want anything of the kind.’ ‘So that’s how it is! Then what are you up to now?’

‘Now?’ repeated Natasha, and a happy smile lit up her face. ‘Have you seen Duport?’ ‘No.’

‘Not seen Duport—the famous dancer? Well then, you won’t understand. That’s what I’m up to.’ Curving her arms, Natasha held out her skirt as dancers do, ran back a few steps, turned, cut a caper, brought her little feet sharply together, and made some steps on the very tips of her toes.

‘See, I’m standing! See!’ she said, but could not maintain herself on her toes any longer. ‘So that’s what I’m up to! I’ll never marry anyone, but will be a dancer. Only don’t tell anyone.’ Rostov laughed so loud and merrily that Denisov in the bedroom felt envious and Natasha could not contain herself and burst out laughing with him.

‘No, but don’t you think it’s nice?’ she kept repeating.

‘Nice! And so you no longer wish to marry Boris?’

Natasha flared up. ‘I don’t want to marry anyone. And I’ll tell him so when I see him!’ ‘Is that so!’ said Rostov.

‘Yes, well, that’s all nothing,’ Natasha chattered on. ‘And is Denisov nice?’ she asked.

‘Yes, indeed!’

‘Oh, well then, goodbye: go and dress. Is he very terrible, Denisov?’

‘Why terrible?’ asked Nikolai. ‘No, Vaska is a splendid fellow.’

‘You call him Vaska? That’s funny! And is he very nice?’

‘Very.’

‘Well then, be quick. Come and drink tea. All together.’

And Natasha rose and went out of the room on tiptoe like a ballet dancer, but smiling as only happy girls of fifteen can smile. When Rostov met Sonya in the drawing-room he reddened. He did not know how to behave with her. The evening before, in the first happy moment of meeting, they had kissed each other, but today they felt it could not be done; he felt that everybody, including his mother and sisters, was looking inquiringly at him and watching to see how he would behave with her. He kissed her hand and addressed her not as thou but as you—Sonya. But their eyes met and said thou, and exchanged tender kisses. Her looks asked him to forgive her for having dared, by Natasha’s intermediacy, to remind him of his promise, and then thanked him for his love. His looks thanked her for offering him his freedom, and told her that one way or other he would never cease to love her, for that would be impossible.

‘How strange it is,’ said Vera, selecting a moment when all were silent, ‘that Sonya and Nikolenka now say you to one another and meet like strangers.’ Vera’s remark was correct as her remarks always were, but like most of her observations it made everyone feel uncomfortable, not only Sonya, Nikolai, and Natasha, but even the old countess, who—dreading this love affair which might hinder Nikolai from making a brilliant match—blushed like a girl.

Denisov to Rostov’s surprise appeared in the drawing-room with pomaded hair, perfumed, and in a new uniform, looking just as smart as he made himself when going into battle, and he was more amiable to the ladies and gentlemen than Rostov had ever expected to see him.