Nikolay, with a touch of instinctive scorn in his voice, as if he was embarrassed to admit that this kind of music appealed to him.
'Good?' said Natasha, full of reproach as she sensed her brother's funny tone. 'It's more than good, it's absolutely magnificent!' She had considered 'Uncle's' mushrooms, honey and various vodkas the best in all the world, and now this playing struck her as the highest possible expression of music.
'More, please, more!' said Natasha in the doorway as soon as the balalaika stopped playing. Mitka retuned and launched again into a plangent version of 'My Lady', with many a trill and flourish. 'Uncle' sat there listening with his head on one side and the suggestion of a grin on his face. The 'My Lady' tune was repeated a hundred times over. With one or two more pauses for retuning, the same plangent notes came at them time and again, but no one found them at all tedious; they all clamoured for more. Anisya came in and leant her portly figure against the doorpost.
'Oh, little countess, just listen to that!' she said to Natasha, with a smile that was extraordinarily like 'Uncle's'. 'He's a marvellous player,' she added.
'He never gets that bit right,' said 'Uncle' suddenly with a wild gesture. 'He needs to draw it out more. Fair for the chase! . . . A bit more drawn out . . .'
'Do you play, then?' asked Natasha.
'Uncle' gave a smile instead of an answer.
'Anisya, old girl, go and see whether the strings on my guitar are all right, will you? It's a long time since I had it in my hands. Fair for the chase! Thought I'd given it up!'
Anisya, needing no second bidding, tripped off on her master's little errand and came back with his guitar. Without a glance at anyone 'Uncle' blew the dust off the instrument, tapped its body with his bony fingers, tuned up and settled himself down in an armchair. Thrusting out his left elbow somewhat theatrically, he gripped the guitar at the bottom of the neck, winked at Anisya and struck up, not with the first notes of 'My Lady' but a single chord of the purest tone followed by a smooth and gentle but sturdy rendition of the popular song, 'Coming down the high road . . .', picked out in very slow time. Nikolay and Natasha thrilled to the rhythm, the tune and the same steady spirit of joy that emanated from Anisya and her whole personality. Anisya blushed, hid her face in her handkerchief and left the room laughing. 'Uncle' went on playing, so sweetly, deliberately, sturdily, gazing with new inspiration at the spot vacated by Anisya. There was a hint of laughter down one side of his face under his grey moustache, and it broadened out as the song went on and the tempo quickened, while his flourishes tore at the heart-strings.
'Wonderful, Uncle, wonderful! Play it again!' cried Natasha the moment he had finished. She leapt up from her place and overwhelmed her 'uncle' with kisses and hugs. 'Oh, Nikolay, darling!' she said, looking round at her brother as if to say, 'How about that, then?'
Nikolay was equally delighted by 'Uncle's' playing, and 'Uncle' soon struck up again. Anisya's smiling face reappeared in the doorway, and other faces behind her.
Fetching water sweet and clear,
Maiden, stop and linger here . . .
played 'Uncle', breaking off with another wild flourish and a single strum, followed by a shrug of the shoulders.
'Oh, Uncle, darling, please!' cried Natasha, wailing and imploring as if her life depended on it. 'Uncle' got to his feet and suddenly it was as if there were two men in him - the first one treating his merry inner companion to a sombre smile, while the merry companion himself started on the simple but precise business of running through the steps of a folk-dance just about to begin.
'Come on, my little niece!' cried the uncle, beckoning to Natasha with the hand that had struck the last chord on the guitar.
Natasha threw off the shawl she had been wrapped in, ran round in front of her 'uncle', and stood there waiting, hands on hips, rhythmically jiggling her shoulders.
Here was a young countess, educated by a French emigree governess - where, when and how had she imbibed the spirit of that peasant dance along with the Russian air she breathed, and these movements which the pas de chale1 ought to have squeezed out of her long ago? But her movements and the spirit of them were truly Russian, inimitable, unteachable, just what 'Uncle' had been hoping for. The moment she took up her stance with such a confident smile, so proud of herself and full of mischievous fun, any misgivings that may have momentarily affected Nikolay and all the onlookers - would she get it all wrong? - were dispelled. Everyone was admiring her.
Her dancing was perfection itself, so beautiful that Anisya, who had been quick to give her the scarf she needed to dance with, chuckled tearfully as she watched the slender, graceful little countess, brought up in silks and velvet in a completely different world, demonstrate her instinctive understanding of all that Anisya stood for, and her father and her mother and her aunt and every last Russian soul.
'Oh yes, little Countess. Fair for the chase!' cried 'Uncle', laughing with delight as they came to the end of the dance. 'You're a niece to be proud of! All we need to do now is find you a nice husband, and then - fair for the chase!'
'We've found one,' said Nikolay with a smile.
'Oho!' said the uncle in some surprise, looking inquiringly at Natasha. Natasha nodded with her own happy smile.
'And a fine one too!' she said. But no sooner were the words out of her mouth than a new and different way of thinking and feeling surged up inside her. 'What did Nikolay's smile mean when he said, "We've found one"? Is he glad, or not? He seems to be thinking my Bolkonsky wouldn't approve of the fun we're all having now, or even understand it. Well, he would understand it. Where is he now?' Natasha wondered with a serious look on her face. But that lasted only a second. 'I'm not going to think about it. I'm just not,' she said to herself, and she sat down again with a new smile close to her 'uncle', begging him to play something else.
The 'uncle' played another song and then a waltz. Then, after a pause, he cleared his throat and launched into his favourite hunting song: Evening when the light is low,
Deep and even falls the snow . . .
'Uncle' sang like a true peasant, with one simple thought in mind - in any song the words are the only thing that matters, the tune follows on, a tune on its own is nothing, a tune just brings it all together. And this gave 'Uncle's' natural way of singing a special charm, not unlike birdsong. Natasha went into ecstasies over 'Uncle's' singing. She made up her mind forthwith to drop the harp, take up the guitar and stick to it. She asked the uncle for the guitar and unhesitatingly picked out the chords of the song.
At about half-past nine a carriage arrived with a trap and three men on horseback who had been sent to fetch Natasha and Petya. The count and countess didn't know where they were and were very worried, said one of the men.
Petya was carried outside and laid in the carriage sleeping the sleep of the dead. Natasha and Nikolay got into the trap. 'Uncle' tucked Natasha in and said goodbye with new-found affection. He walked with them as far as the bridge, which could not be crossed, so they had to leave the road and cross by a ford, and told his huntsmen to ride on in front with lanterns.
'Goodbye, my dear little niece!' they heard him call through the darkness, and his voice was not the one Natasha had known before, but the one that had sung 'Evening when the light is low . . .'
Soon they were driving through a village where there were red lights shining and the smell of wood-smoke.
'Uncle's a real darling, isn't he?' said Natasha as they drove out on to the high road.
'Yes,' said Nikolay. 'Are you cold?'
'No, I'm fine, just fine. I'm so happy,' said Natasha, surprised to hear herself saying so. For some time neither of them spoke.
The night was dark and damp. The horses were invisible as they splashed through the unseen mud.
What was going on in that childlike, impressionable soul, so eagerly devouring and absorbing all the vast range of impressions that life can offer? How were they all shaping up in her mind? But there she was, a picture of happiness. They were nearly home when suddenly she began to hum the tune of 'Evening when the light is low . . .' She had just got it, after struggling to recall it all the way back.
'Got it at last?' said Nikolay.
'Penny for your thoughts, Nikolay,' said Natasha, something they loved to say to each other.
'Oh,' said Nikolay, thinking back. 'Er, I was just thinking about Rugay. Remember that red dog? He's just like 'Uncle'. If he was a man he'd keep 'Uncle' on all right, either for racing, or just because they get on together. 'Uncle's' easy to get on with, isn't he? Penny for yours.'
'Oh, er, wait a minute . . . I know. I was just thinking - here we are driving along and we assume we're heading for home, but we could be going anywhere, it's so dark, and all of a sudden we'll arrive somewhere and we'll see we're not at Otradnoye, we're in fairyland. And then I was thinking . . . oh, but that'll do.'
'Oh, you must have been thinking about him,' said Nikolay, and Natasha could hear the smile in his voice.
'No, I wasn't,' Natasha answered, though actually she had been thinking about Prince Andrey and how he would have taken to 'Uncle'. 'And I've been saying over and over again, all the way back, how nice Anisya looked when she walked, how very nice . . .' said Natasha. And Nikolay heard her ringing laughter, so spontaneous, so happy.
'Do you know what?' she said suddenly. 'I'm certain I'll never be as relaxed and happy as I am right now . . .'
'Don't talk such absolute rubbish!' said Nikolay. He was thinking, 'My Natasha's such a darling girl! I've never had a friend like her, and I never shall. Why does she have to go and get married? I could go on driving like this with her for ever!'
'Dear old Nikolay, he's such a darling!' Natasha was thinking.
'Look! The light's still on in the drawing-room,' she said, pointing to the windows of their house and the warm welcome that shone through the wet, velvety darkness of the night.
CHAPTER 8
Count Ilya Rostov had resigned as Marshal of the Nobility because the position involved too much expense, but still there was no improvement in his affairs. Natasha and Nikolay often came across their parents deep in private conversation and looking worried, and there was talk of having to sell off the Rostovs' magnificent family seat and the estate near Moscow. With the count no longer serving as Marshal lavish entertainment had become unnecessary and family life at Otradnoye was less hectic than in years gone by. But the huge house with its extensive wings was still teeming with people, and a couple of dozen still sat down to table. There were all manner of kith and kin going back years, family in all but name, the sort of people whose continued existence in the count's house seemed inevitable. There was Dimmler, the music-teacher, and his wife; Iogel, the dancing-master, and his family; an elderly resident lady known as Madame Belov, and many others - Petya's tutors, the girls' old governess, and one or two characters who just found it better, or cheaper, to live there than on their own. Entertainment was less lavish, but the Rostovs still lived on in a certain style, and anything else would have been unthinkable for the count and countess. There was the same hunting establishment, which had actually been expanded by Nikolay. There were still the same fifty horses and fifteen grooms in the stables, the same expensive presents on name-days, and the same sumptuous dinners involving the whole neighbourhood. The count still ran the same games of whist and boston, fanning his cards out for all to see and letting the neighbours bleed him of hundreds every day of the week until they came to regard the privilege of making up a rubber with Count Ilya Rostov as a handy source of revenue.
The count proceeded with his affairs like someone blundering into a huge animal trap, trying not to believe he had been caught but getting more and more entangled with every step he took, and not up to the task of either tearing himself free from the nets or disentangling himself with care and patience. The countess with her loving heart could sense that her children were being steadily ruined, though it was no good blaming the count, because he couldn't help being what he was, and he was desperately worried too (though he did his best to hide it) about the ruin that stared him and his children in the face, so she began to look for some way to put things right. To her woman's way of thinking there was only one way out - Nikolay must marry a wealthy heiress. This was their last hope, she felt, and if Nikolay refused the match she had found for him they would have to say goodbye to any possibility of restoring the family fortunes. This match was Julie Karagin, the daughter of splendid and virtuous parents known to the Rostovs since childhood; she had become a wealthy heiress on the recent death of her last surviving brother.
The countess had written personally to Madame Karagin in Moscow, suggesting a possible marriage between their two children, and the reply was favourable. Madame Karagin had replied that she herself was in agreement, but everything depended on how her daughter felt. She now invited Nikolay to Moscow. Several times the countess had told her son with tears in her eyes that with both of her daughters nicely settled her only wish now was to see him married. She said she could go peacefully to her grave once this was settled. Then she would add that she had an excellent girl in mind, and tried to sound him out on the subject of matrimony.
On other occasions she would sing Julie's praises and suggest that Nikolay might like to go down to Moscow and enjoy himself during the holidays. Nikolay soon guessed what his mother was driving at in these little confidences, and there came a time when he forced her out into the open. She came straight out with it: any hopes of restoring the family fortunes now depended on his marrying Julie Karagin.
'What do you mean, Mamma? If I loved a girl with no money would you really want me to sacrifice my feelings and my honour just to make us all rich?' he asked his mother, unaware of the cruelty in his question, but wanting to show off his own noble sentiments.
'No, no. You don't understand,' said his mother, not knowing how to put herself in the right. 'You don't understand, darling. It's your happiness I'm thinking about,' she added, sensing she was very much in the wrong, and floundering because of it. She burst into tears.
'Mamma, please don't cry. Just tell me this is what you want, and you know I'll give up anything, my whole life if necessary, for your peace of mind,' said Nikolay. 'I'll sacrifice anything, even my feelings.'
But the countess didn't want to hear the question put like that. She wanted no sacrifices from her son; she wanted to make sacrifices for him.
'No. You still don't understand. Let's talk about something else,' she said, wiping her tears away.
'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 fiance, 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-ro