War and Peace
Natásha’s censure it was only for buying too many and too expensive
things. To her other defects (as most people thought them, but which
to Pierre were qualities) of untidiness and neglect of herself, she now
added stinginess.
From the time that Pierre began life as a family man on a footing
entailing heavy expenditure, he had noticed to his surprise that he
spent only half as much as before, and that his affairs—which had been
in disorder of late, chiefly because of his first wife’s debts—had begun
to improve.
Life was cheaper because it was circumscribed: that most expensive
luxury, the kind of life that can be changed at any moment, was no
longer his nor did he wish for it. He felt that his way of life had now
been settled once for all till death and that to change it was not in
his power, and so that way of life proved economical.
With a merry, smiling face Pierre was sorting his purchases.
“What do you think of this?” said he, unrolling a piece of stuff like a
shopman.
Natásha, who was sitting opposite to him with her eldest daughter on her
lap, turned her sparkling eyes swiftly from her husband to the things he
showed her.
“That’s for Belóva? Excellent!” She felt the quality of the material.
“It was a ruble an arshin, I suppose?”
Pierre told her the price.
“Too dear!” Natásha remarked. “How pleased the children will be and
Mamma too! Only you need not have bought me this,” she added, unable to
suppress a smile as she gazed admiringly at a gold comb set with pearls,
of a kind then just coming into fashion.
“Adèle tempted me: she kept on telling me to buy it,” returned Pierre.
“When am I to wear it?” and Natásha stuck it in her coil of hair. “When
I take little Másha into society? Perhaps they will be fashionable again
by then. Well, let’s go now.”
And collecting the presents they went first to the nursery and then to
the old countess’ rooms.
The countess was sitting with her companion Belóva, playing
grand-patience as usual, when Pierre and Natásha came into the drawing
room with parcels under their arms.
The countess was now over sixty, was quite gray, and wore a cap with a
frill that surrounded her face. Her face had shriveled, her upper lip
had sunk in, and her eyes were dim.
After the deaths of her son and husband in such rapid succession, she
felt herself a being accidentally forgotten in this world and left
without aim or object for her existence. She ate, drank, slept, or kept
awake, but did not live. Life gave her no new impressions. She wanted
nothing from life but tranquillity, and that tranquillity only death
could give her. But until death came she had to go on living, that is,
to use her vital forces. A peculiarity one sees in very young children
and very old people was particularly evident in her. Her life had
no external aims—only a need to exercise her various functions and
inclinations was apparent. She had to eat, sleep, think, speak, weep,
work, give vent to her anger, and so on, merely because she had a
stomach, a brain, muscles, nerves, and a liver. She did these things not
under any external impulse as people in the full vigor of life do,
when behind the purpose for which they strive that of exercising their
functions remains unnoticed. She talked only because she physically
needed to exercise her tongue and lungs. She cried as a child does,
because her nose had to be cleared, and so on. What for people in their
full vigor is an aim was for her evidently merely a pretext.
Thus in the morning—especially if she had eaten anything rich the day
before—she felt a need of being angry and would choose as the handiest
pretext Belóva’s deafness.
She would begin to say something to her in a low tone from the other end
of the room.
“It seems a little warmer today, my dear,” she would murmur.
And when Belóva replied: “Oh yes, they’ve come,” she would mutter
angrily: “O Lord! How stupid and deaf she is!”
Another pretext would be her snuff, which would seem too dry or too damp
or not rubbed fine enough. After these fits of irritability her face
would grow yellow, and her maids knew by infallible symptoms when Belóva
would again be deaf, the snuff damp, and the countess’ face yellow. Just
as she needed to work off her spleen so she had sometimes to exercise
her still-existing faculty of thinking—and the pretext for that was a
game of patience. When she needed to cry, the deceased count would be
the pretext. When she wanted to be agitated, Nicholas and his health
would be the pretext, and when she felt a need to speak spitefully, the
pretext would be Countess Mary. When her vocal organs needed exercise,
which was usually toward seven o’clock when she had had an after-dinner
rest in a darkened room, the pretext would be the retelling of the same
stories over and over again to the same audience.
The old lady’s condition was understood by the whole household though no
one ever spoke of it, and they all made every possible effort to satisfy
her needs. Only by a rare glance exchanged with a sad smile
between Nicholas, Pierre, Natásha, and Countess Mary was the common
understanding of her condition expressed.
But those glances expressed something more: they said that she had
played her part in life, that what they now saw was not her whole self,
that we must all become like her, and that they were glad to yield to
her, to restrain themselves for this once precious being formerly as
full of life as themselves, but now so much to be pitied. “Memento
mori,” said these glances.
Only the really heartless, the stupid ones of that household, and the
little children failed to understand this and avoided her.
CHAPTER XIII
When Pierre and his wife entered the drawing room the countess was in
one of her customary states in which she needed the mental exertion of
playing patience, and so—though by force of habit she greeted him with
the words she always used when Pierre or her son returned after an
absence: “High time, my dear, high time! We were all weary of waiting
for you. Well, thank God!” and received her presents with another
customary remark: “It’s not the gift that’s precious, my dear, but that
you give it to me, an old woman...”—yet it was evident that she was
not pleased by Pierre’s arrival at that moment when it diverted her
attention from the unfinished game.
She finished her game of patience and only then examined the presents.
They consisted of a box for cards, of splendid workmanship, a
bright-blue Sèvres tea cup with shepherdesses depicted on it and with
a lid, and a gold snuffbox with the count’s portrait on the lid which
Pierre had had done by a miniaturist in Petersburg. The countess had
long wished for such a box, but as she did not want to cry just then she
glanced indifferently at the portrait and gave her attention chiefly to
the box for cards.
“Thank you, my dear, you have cheered me up,” said she as she always
did. “But best of all you have brought yourself back—for I never saw
anything like it, you ought to give your wife a scolding! What are we
to do with her? She is like a mad woman when you are away. Doesn’t see
anything, doesn’t remember anything,” she went on, repeating her usual
phrases. “Look, Anna Timoféevna,” she added to her companion, “see what
a box for cards my son has brought us!”
Belóva admired the presents and was delighted with her dress material.
Though Pierre, Natásha, Nicholas, Countess Mary, and Denísov had much to
talk about that they could not discuss before the old countess—not
that anything was hidden from her, but because she had dropped so
far behindhand in many things that had they begun to converse in her
presence they would have had to answer inopportune questions and to
repeat what they had already told her many times: that so-and-so was
dead and so-and-so was married, which she would again be unable to
remember—yet they sat at tea round the samovar in the drawing room from
habit, and Pierre answered the countess’ questions as to whether Prince
Vasíli had aged and whether Countess Mary Alexéevna had sent greetings
and still thought of them, and other matters that interested no one and
to which she herself was indifferent.
Conversation of this kind, interesting to no one yet unavoidable,
continued all through teatime. All the grown-up members of the family
were assembled near the round tea table at which Sónya presided beside
the samovar. The children with their tutors and governesses had had
tea and their voices were audible from the next room. At tea all sat
in their accustomed places: Nicholas beside the stove at a small table
where his tea was handed to him; Mílka, the old gray borzoi bitch
(daughter of the first Mílka), with a quite gray face and large black
eyes that seemed more prominent than ever, lay on the armchair beside
him; Denísov, whose curly hair, mustache, and whiskers had turned half
gray, sat beside countess Mary with his general’s tunic unbuttoned;
Pierre sat between his wife and the old countess. He spoke of what he
knew might interest the old lady and that she could understand. He
told her of external social events and of the people who had formed
the circle of her contemporaries and had once been a real, living, and
distinct group, but who were now for the most part scattered about the
world and like herself were garnering the last ears of the harvests they
had sown in earlier years. But to the old countess those contemporaries
of hers seemed to be the only serious and real society. Natásha saw by
Pierre’s animation that his visit had been interesting and that he had
much to tell them but dare not say it before the old countess. Denísov,
not being a member of the family, did not understand Pierre’s caution
and being, as a malcontent, much interested in what was occurring in
Petersburg, kept urging Pierre to tell them about what had happened in
the Semënovsk regiment, then about Arakchéev, and then about the Bible
Society. Once or twice Pierre was carried away and began to speak of
these things, but Nicholas and Natásha always brought him back to the
health of Prince Iván and Countess Mary Alexéevna.
“Well, and all this idiocy—Gossner and Tatáwinova?” Denísov asked. “Is
that weally still going on?”
“Going on?” Pierre exclaimed. “Why more than ever! The Bible Society is
the whole government now!”
“What is that, mon cher ami?” asked the countess, who had finished her
tea and evidently needed a pretext for being angry after her meal. “What
are you saying about the government? I don’t understand.”
“Well, you know, Maman,” Nicholas interposed, knowing how to translate
things into his mother’s language, “Prince Alexander Golítsyn has
founded a society and in consequence has great influence, they say.”
“Arakchéev and Golítsyn,” incautiously remarked Pierre, “are now the
whole government! And what a government! They see treason everywhere and
are afraid of everything.”
“Well, and how is Prince Alexander to blame? He is a most estimable
man. I used to meet him at Mary Antónovna’s,” said the countess in an
offended tone; and still more offended that they all remained silent,
she went on: “Nowadays everyone finds fault. A Gospel Society! Well, and
what harm is there in that?” and she rose (everybody else got up too)
and with a severe expression sailed back to her table in the sitting
room.
The melancholy silence that followed was broken by the sounds of the
children’s voices and laughter from the next room. Evidently some jolly
excitement was going on there.
“Finished, finished!” little Natásha’s gleeful yell rose above them all.
Pierre exchanged glances with Countess Mary and Nicholas (Natásha he
never lost sight of) and smiled happily.
“That’s delightful music!” said he.