________________________________________________
_ One matter connected with his management sometimes worried Nicholas,
and that was his quick temper together with his old hussar habit of
making free use of his fists. At first he saw nothing reprehensible in
this, but in the second year of his marriage his view of that form
of punishment suddenly changed.
Once in summer he had sent for the village elder from Bogucharovo, a
man who had succeeded to the post when Dron died and who was accused
of dishonesty and various irregularities. Nicholas went out into the
porch to question him, and immediately after the elder had given a few
replies the sound of cries and blows were heard. On returning to lunch
Nicholas went up to his wife, who sat with her head bent low over
her embroidery frame, and as usual began to tell her what he had
been doing that morning. Among other things he spoke of the
Bogucharovo elder. Countess Mary turned red and then pale, but
continued to sit with head bowed and lips compressed and gave her
husband no reply.
"Such an insolent scoundrel!" he cried, growing hot again at the
mere recollection of him. "If he had told me he was drunk and did
not see... But what is the matter with you, Mary?" he suddenly asked.
Countess Mary raised her head and tried to speak, but hastily looked
down again and her lips puckered.
"Why, whatever is the matter, my dearest?"
The looks of the plain Countess Mary always improved when she was in
tears. She never cried from pain or vexation, but always from sorrow
or pity, and when she wept her radiant eyes acquired an irresistible
charm.
The moment Nicholas took her hand she could no longer restrain
herself and began to cry.
"Nicholas, I saw it... he was to blame, but why do you... Nicholas!"
and she covered her face with her hands.
Nicholas said nothing. He flushed crimson, left her side, and
paced up and down the room. He understood what she was weeping
about, but could not in his heart at once agree with her that what
he had regarded from childhood as quite an everyday event was wrong.
"Is it just sentimentality, old wives' tales, or is she right?" he
asked himself. Before he had solved that point he glanced again at her
face filled with love and pain, and he suddenly realized that she
was right and that he had long been sinning against himself.
"Mary," he said softly, going up to her, "it will never happen
again; I give you my word. Never," he repeated in a trembling voice
like a boy asking for forgiveness.
The tears flowed faster still from the countess' eyes. She took
his hand and kissed it.
"Nicholas, when when did you break your cameo?" she asked to
change the subject, looking at his finger on which he wore a ring with
a cameo of Laocoon's head.
"Today- it was the same affair. Oh, Mary, don't remind me of it!"
and again he flushed. "I give you my word of honor it shan't occur
again, and let this always be a reminder to me," and he pointed to the
broken ring.
After that, when in discussions with his village elders or
stewards the blood rushed to his face and his fists began to clench,
Nicholas would turn the broken ring on his finger and would drop his
eyes before the man who was making him angry. But he did forget
himself once or twice within a twelvemonth, and then he would go and
confess to his wife, and would again promise that this should really
be the very last time.
"Mary, you must despise me!" he would say. "I deserve it."
"You should go, go away at once, if you don't feel strong enough
to control yourself," she would reply sadly, trying to comfort her
husband.
Among the gentry of the province Nicholas was respected but not
liked. He did not concern himself with the interests of his own class,
and consequently some thought him proud and others thought him stupid.
The whole summer, from spring sowing to harvest, he was busy with
the work on his farm. In autumn he gave himself up to hunting with the
same business like seriousness- leaving home for a month, or even two,
with his hunt. In winter he visited his other villages or spent his
time reading. The books he read were chiefly historical, and on
these he spent a certain sum every year. He was collecting, as he
said, a serious library, and he made it a rule to read through all the
books he bought. He would sit in his study with a grave air,
reading- a task he first imposed upon himself as a duty, but which
afterwards became a habit affording him a special kind of pleasure and
a consciousness of being occupied with serious matters. In winter,
except for business excursions, he spent most of his time at home
making himself one with his family and entering into all the details
of his children's relations with their mother. The harmony between him
and his wife grew closer and closer and he daily discovered fresh
spiritual treasures in her.
From the time of his marriage Sonya had lived in his house. Before
that, Nicholas had told his wife all that had passed between himself
and Sonya, blaming himself and commending her. He had asked Princess
Mary to be gentle and kind to his cousin. She thoroughly realized
the wrong he had done Sonya, felt herself to blame toward her, and
imagined that her wealth had influenced Nicholas' choice. She could
not find fault with Sonya in any way and tried to be fond of her,
but often felt ill-will toward her which she could not overcome.
Once she had a talk with her friend Natasha about Sonya and about
her own injustice toward her.
"You know," said Natasha, "you have read the Gospels a great deal-
there is a passage in them that just fits Sonya."
"What?" asked Countess Mary, surprised.
"'To him that hath shall be given, and from him that hath not
shall be taken away.' You remember? She is one that hath not; why, I
don't know. Perhaps she lacks egotism, I don't know, but from her is
taken away, and everything has been taken away. Sometimes I am
dreadfully sorry for her. Formerly I very much wanted Nicholas to
marry her, but I always had a sort of presentiment that it would not
come off. She is a sterile flower, you know- like some strawberry
blossoms. Sometimes I am sorry for her, and sometimes I think she
doesn't feel it as you or I would."
Though Countess Mary told Natasha that those words in the Gospel
must be understood differently, yet looking at Sonya she agreed with
Natasha's explanation. It really seemed that Sonya did not feel her
position trying, and had grown quite reconciled to her lot as a
sterile flower. She seemed to be fond not so much of individuals as of
the family as a whole. Like a cat, she had attached herself not to the
people but to the home. She waited on the old countess, petted and
spoiled the children, was always ready to render the small services
for which she had a gift, and all this was unconsciously accepted from
her with insufficient gratitude.
The country seat at Bald Hills had been rebuilt, though not on the
same scale as under the old prince.
The buildings, begun under straitened circumstances, were more
than simple. The immense house on the old stone foundations was of
wood, plastered only inside. It had bare deal floors and was furnished
with very simple hard sofas, armchairs, tables, and chairs made by
their own serf carpenters out of their own birchwood. The house was
spacious and had rooms for the house serfs and apartments for
visitors. Whole families of the Rostovs' and Bolkonskis' relations
sometimes came to Bald Hills with sixteen horses and dozens of
servants and stayed for months. Besides that, four times a year, on
the name days and birthdays of the hosts, as many as a hundred
visitors would gather there for a day or two. The rest of the year
life pursued its unbroken routine with its ordinary occupations, and
its breakfasts, lunches, dinners, and suppers, provided out of the
produce of the estate. _
Read next: First Epilogue: 1813 - 20: Chapter 9
Read previous: First Epilogue: 1813 - 20: Chapter 7
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