by Leo Tolstoy
He was the most absent-minded and forgetful of men, but he had stuck to the list supplied by his wife and bought everything, not forgetting a single commission from his mother-in-law or brother-in-law, the dress material for Madame Belov or the toys for his nephews.
In the early days of his married life it had struck him as odd that his wife should insist so strongly that he mustn't forget anything he was supposed to buy, and he had been shocked by seeing her so put out when he had come back from his first trip without remembering a thing. But eventually he got the knack of it. Knowing that Natasha never asked him to get anything for her, and only told him to get things for other people when he had already offered to do so, he now surprised himself by taking a childish pleasure in getting presents for all the household, and he never forgot anything. If he incurred Natasha's displeasure now it was only for buying too much and spending over the odds. To her other defects (as seen by other people, though Pierre saw them as positive qualities) - her slipshod manner and personal untidiness - Natasha had by now added penny-pinching.
Ever since Pierre had set up home and family on a large scale involving considerable expenditure he had noticed to his astonishment that he was living on half what he had been spending in the past, and his finances, which until recently had been all over the place largely because of the debts incurred by his first wife, were now looking up.
He was getting by on less money because his life was now coherent. The greatest luxury in his former lifestyle, the possibility of completely changing it at a moment's notice, was something Pierre no longer had and no longer wanted. He felt that his lifestyle was now settled once and for all till the day of his death; he had no power to change it, and that made it all cheaper.
Pierre had a happy smile on his face as he unpacked his purchases.
'How about that?' he said as he unfolded a length of material like a draper. Natasha was sitting opposite with her eldest daughter on her knee, and her sparkling eyes darted from her husband to the things he was putting on display.
'Is that for Madame Belov? Splendid.' She felt it for quality. 'What was it, a rouble a yard?' Pierre told her how much.
'That's a lot,' said Natasha. 'Anyway, the children will be delighted, and so will Mamma. But you shouldn't have bought me this,' she added, unable to suppress a smile as she admired one of the gold combs set with pearls that were just coming in.
'It's Adele's fault. She kept on at me to buy it,' said Pierre.
'When shall I wear it?' Natasha stuck it in her coil of hair. 'It'll do nicely when we bring little Masha out. Maybe they'll be in fashion again. Come on then. Let's go in.'
They scooped up the presents, and set off, first for the nursery, then to see the countess.
As usual the countess was sitting playing patience with Madame Belov when Pierre and Natasha came into the drawing-room with parcels under their arms.
The countess was now in her sixties. Her hair was completely grey, and she wore a cap with a frill that went right round her face. Her face was covered in wrinkles, her top lip had sunk in, and her eyes had no sparkle.
After her son and her husband had died so suddenly one after another she had felt like a creature left behind in this world by mistake, with nothing to live for and no meaning to her existence. She ate and drank, slept and lay awake, but she didn't live. Life made no impression on her. All she wanted from life was to be left in peace, and real peace would only be found in death. But death was a long time coming and meanwhile she had to go on living, to put her time and her vital forces to some kind of use. She manifested in the highest degree something you see only in very small children and in very old people. She led an existence without any visible aim; all that could be seen in it was the need to exercise various faculties and capabilities. She had to do a little eating, sleeping, thinking, talking, weeping, working, getting angry and so on, but only because she had a stomach, brain, muscles, nerves and liver. She did all these things not from any external motivation, as people do when they are fully alive and the aim they are striving towards conceals the underlying aim of exercising their faculties. When she talked it was only because she needed physical exercise for her lungs and tongue. When she cried like a child it was because she needed to clear the airways, and so on. What would have been an aim for people who are fully alive for her was obviously nothing more than a pretext.
So, for example, in the morning, especially if she had eaten something too fatty the day before, she might feel the need to be angry with someone and she would latch on to the nearest pretext - Madame Belov's deafness.
From the far end of the room she would launch forth in a low voice.
'I fancy it's a little warmer today, my dear,' she would whisper. And when Madame Belov replied, 'No, I think they're here now,' she would mutter angrily, 'Mercy on us, she's so deaf and stupid!'
Her snuff was another pretext. It was either too dry or too damp, or perhaps too coarse. After these outbursts of irritability you could see the bile on her face. And to her maids the signs were unmistakable: they could tell when Madame Belov was going to be deaf again, when the snuff was going to be damp again, and when her face was going to turn yellow. Just as she had to give her bile something to work on, sometimes she felt the need to exercise what was left of her powers of thought, and the pretext for this was patience. When she needed to shed a few tears, the late count was the pretext. When she needed something to worry about, it would be Nikolay and the state of his health. When she wanted to come out with something spiteful, the pretext was Countess Marya. When she needed to exercise her organs of speech - usually about seven in the evening after she had had her little rest in a darkened room to let dinner digest - she would find a pretext in the retelling of old stories, always the same stories and the same listeners.
The old countess's condition was understood by the whole household, though no one ever talked about it, and they all went out of their way to satisfy her various needs. Just now and then a quick glance or a sad half-smile would pass between Nikolay, Pierre, Natasha and Countess Marya, enough to imply their shared awareness of her condition.
But these glances implied something else besides. They said that her life's work was done, that what they saw now was not her whole self, that one day we'll all be like that, and they were only too pleased to indulge her, to hold back for the sake of this pathetic creature, once so dear, once as full of life as they were. What their glances said was, 'Memento mori.'
Within the household only one or two completely heartless and stupid people and the little ones failed to understand this, and they kept away from her.
CHAPTER 13
When Pierre and his wife came into the drawing-room the countess happened to be in her usual condition of needing the intellectual exercise of a game of patience, and so - although by force of habit she trotted out the same words she always said when Pierre or her son came back from a trip: 'About time too, my dear boy. We thought you'd never come. Well, thank God you're back!' and when she got her presents she came out with more stock phrases: 'It's not the gift that counts, my dear . . . Thank you for thinking of an old woman like me . . .' - it was quite clear that Pierre's entrance at that moment was unwelcome, because it was a distraction from her half-finished round of patience. She finished her game, and only then got down to opening the presents. These consisted of a beautifully carved card-case, a bright blue Sevres cup with a lid and shepherdesses painted on it and a gold snuff-box with the count's portrait on it, which Pierre had ordered from a miniature-painter in Petersburg. The countess had been longing for a snuff-box like this, but just now she didn't feel like weeping, so she gave the portrait nothing more than a casual glance and concentrated on the card-case.
'Thank you so much, my dear. You're a real comfort,' she said, as always. 'But best of all, you have brought yourself back. It has been like nothing on earth here. You really must speak to your wife. You wouldn't believe it - she's like a mad woman when you're not here. She can't so much as see o
r think,' she said, using all the old phrases. 'Look here, Anna, my dear,' she added. 'Look what a nice card-case my son has brought for us.'
Madame Belov admired the presents, and enthused about her dress material.
Pierre, Natasha, Nikolay, Countess Marya and Denisov had a lot to talk about, but it couldn't be gone into in front of the old countess, not because they hid things from her, but simply because she was so far out of touch that if you started a conversation while she was there you would have to answer all sorts of irrelevant questions and repeat things constantly, reminding her that so-and-so was dead and somebody else was married, and knowing she wouldn't remember it this time round. So they just sat there in the usual way taking tea round the samovar in the drawing-room, and Pierre answered the countess's questions, which were of no use to her and no interest to anybody, by letting her know that Prince Vasily was looking older, and Countess Marya Alexeyevna still remembered them and sent her kind regards, etc.
This kind of conversation, quite unavoidable for all its lack of interest, was kept going all through tea-time. All the adult members of the family had come to sit together at the round tea-table, with Sonya presiding by the samovar. The children with their tutors and governesses had already had their tea, and their voices rang through from the next room. At tea they all sat in their usual places. Nikolay sat at his own little table by the stove, and his tea was handed across. An old borzoi bitch with a grizzled old muzzle and black eyes more prominent than ever - Milka, daughter of the original Milka - lay on a chair beside him. Denisov, with a lot of grey in his curly hair, moustache and side-whiskers, sat next to Countess Marya with his general's tunic unbuttoned. Pierre sat between his wife and the old countess. He was talking about things he knew the old lady might be interested in and could also understand. He talked about superficial social events and referred to people who had once made up the circle of the old countess's contemporaries, and once formed a distinct and lively grouping, though they were now for the most part scattered about the world, living out their days like her and gathering up the last ears from crops sown in earlier life. But as far as the old countess was concerned these contemporaries of hers were the only real world of any significance.
Pierre was looking excited and Natasha could tell that his visit had been full of interest; he obviously had a lot to say about it, but not while the countess was still there. Not being family, Denisov couldn't understand Pierre's reluctance, and, dissatisfied as he was with the way things were going, he was very keen to hear the latest word from Petersburg. He made several challenging attempts to get Pierre talking about the recent scandal in the Semyonovsky regiment, or Arakcheyev, or the Bible Society.13 Once or twice Pierre got carried away and was about to launch forth, only for Nikolay and Natasha to steer him back to the health of Prince Ivan and Countess Marya Antonovna.
'So what's this widiculous nonsense about Gossner and Madame Tatawinova?'14 Denisov asked. 'Is it still going on?'
'Going on?' said Pierre. 'It's worse than ever. And the Bible Society has taken over the government.'
'What was that, my dear friend?' inquired the old countess. Having drunk her tea, she was clearly on the look-out for a pretext to vent a little ill-humour after indulging in refreshments. 'What were you saying about the government? I don't know what you mean.'
'It's like this, Mamma,' put in Nikolay, skilled as he was in translating into his mother's language. 'Prince Alexander Golitsyn has started a society. They do say he's a big man nowadays.'
'Arakcheyev and Golitsyn,' said Pierre rather rashly. 'They are the government now. And what a government! They see a conspiracy round every corner, and they're scared of their own shadows.'
'Now what can Prince Golitsyn possibly have done wrong? He is a pillar of society. I used to meet him in the old days at Marya Antonovna's,' said the countess, greatly aggrieved. And still more aggrieved by the ensuing silence, she went on. 'People are always finding fault nowadays. A Gospel Society? There's no harm in that!' She got to her feet (as did all the company), and grimly sailed forth to find her table in the next room.
The lugubrious silence that ensued was interrupted by the sound of children's voices and laughter coming from the next room. There was evidently some boisterous excitement afoot among the children.
'It's finished! It's finished!' Little Natasha's gleeful shriek could be heard above all the rest. Pierre's eyes were on his Natasha, but he exchanged quick glances with Countess Marya and Nikolay, and gave a happy smile.
'Music to my ears!' he said.
'Anna Makarovna has finished her stocking,' said Countess Marya.
'Oh, I'm going in to have a look,' said Pierre, jumping to his feet. 'You know something,' he said, stopping at the door. 'I really love that kind of music. I wonder why? It's the first thing that tells me everything's all right. On the way back today, the nearer I got to the house, the more worried I was. Then I heard Andryusha roaring with laughter in the hall, and I knew everything was all right . . .'
'Yes, I know that feeling,' Nikolay chimed in. 'I can't go in with you. The stockings are a present for me.'
Pierre went in to the children, and the shrieks and laughter were louder than ever. 'Now then, Anna Makarovna,' cried Pierre's voice. 'We want you here in the middle of the room. Wait for the command - one, two . . . and then I'll say three! You stand here. I'll have you in my arms. Ready? One . . . two . . .' There was complete silence. 'Three!' and a roar of excited children's voices filled the room.
'There are two! There are two!' cried the children.
And there were indeed two stockings, because, by a secret process known only to herself, Anna Makarovna could knit two on one pair of needles, and she always made a great show of bringing the children round and producing one stocking from inside the other when the pair was done.
CHAPTER 14
Soon after this the children came in to say goodnight. They did the rounds, kissing everybody; the tutors and governesses made their bows and went out. Dessalles and his pupil were the only ones left. The tutor whispered to the boy, asking him to come downstairs.
'No, Monsieur Dessalles, I'm going to ask my aunt if I can stay,' young Nikolay Bolkonsky answered, also in a whisper.
'Auntie, please may I stay?' said Nikolay, going over to Countess Marya. His face was a picture of entreaty, excitement and enthusiasm. She looked at him and turned to Pierre.
'While ever you are here he can't tear himself away . . .' she said.
'I'll bring him down soon, Monsieur Dessalles. Goodnight,' said Pierre, offering his hand to the Swiss tutor, and turning with a smile to Nikolay. 'We haven't seen much of each other. Marie, he's getting more and more like him, isn't he?' he added, turning to Countess Marya.
'Like my father?' said the boy, blushing to the roots of his hair and gazing up at Pierre with blissful, glittering eyes.
Pierre nodded, and went on with the conversation that had been interrupted by the children. Countess Marya had some canvas embroidery to work on, Natasha sat there with her eyes on her husband, and Nikolay and Denisov put question after question to Pierre while getting to their feet, asking for a pipe, having a smoke and accepting cups of tea from a gloomy Sonya, doggedly manning the samovar. The delicate curlyheaded boy sat unnoticed in a corner, his eyes gleaming and his curly head on its slender neck protruding from a turned-down collar never moved except to follow Pierre round the room. Now and then he shivered, and mumbled something under his breath, evidently thrilled by some powerful new sensation.
The conversation turned on the latest scandals at the top of the government, most people's favourite topic in the politics of their country. Denisov, who was disappointed in the government because of his own setbacks in the service, was delighted to hear about what he saw as a series of ridiculous new developments in Petersburg, and his harsh comments on Pierre's words came out in a few trenchant phrases.
'In the old days you had to be a German to be anybody - nowadays you have to dance with that Tatawinov wom
an and Madame Kwudner,15 and wead . . . Eckartshausen, and all the west of them. Huh! Might as well let good old Bonaparte loose again! He'd bang a few heads together. What on earth are they doing giving the Semyonovsky wegiment to that man Schwartz?' he shouted.
Nikolay did not have Denisov's predisposition to find fault with everything, but he did think it was right and proper to criticize the government, and he believed that the latest developments - A being appointed minister of this department, and B governor of that province, the Tsar saying one thing, and the minister saying another - were all very important. And he thought it behoved him to show an interest and ask questions. With contributors like Nikolay and Denisov interrogating Pierre the conversation never looked like straying from the usual lines of gossip about the top government people.
But Natasha was familiar with her husband's every idea and mannerism, and she could see that Pierre had long been wanting to steer the conversation in another direction and speak out passionately on his own subject, the subject that had taken him to Petersburg for consultations with his new friend, Prince Fyodor, but so far he had been unable to do so. She helped him out by asking how things had gone with Prince Fyodor.
'What was that?' asked Nikolay.
'It's the same thing again and again,' said Pierre, looking round the room. 'Everybody can see that things have come to such a pass something has to be done. All honest men have a duty to resist as far as they can.'
'Yes, but what can honest men do?' said Nikolay with a slight frown. 'What can they actually do?'
'I'll tell you what . . .'
'Let's go into the study,' said Nikolay.
Natasha, who had long been expecting a call to go and feed the baby, now heard the nurse and went off to the nursery. Countess Marya went with her. The men went to the study, and little Nikolay crept in unnoticed and sat down at a desk in the shadows near the window.
'Come on, then. What are you going to do?' said Denisov.
'Castles in the air again,' said Nikolay.
'I'll tell you,' Pierre began. Instead of sitting down he paced the room, stopping now and then, lisping as he spoke and making wild gestures. 'I'll tell you. Do you know how things stand in Petersburg? The Tsar has lost his grip. He's so absorbed in his mysticism.' (For the new Pierre mysticism was unforgivable.) 'All he asks is to be left in peace, and he can only get peace through men with no faith or conscience, people who are strangling and destroying everything - Magnitsky,16 Arakcheyev and tutti quanti . . . You must admit: if you didn't look after your own property because all you wanted was peace and quiet, your bailiff would get the quickest results by being as vicious as he could,' he said, turning to Nikolay.
