War and Peace

ne 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 Boguchárovo, 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 Boguchárovo 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 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
Laocoön’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 Sónya had lived in his house. Before
that, Nicholas had told his wife all that had passed between himself and
Sónya, 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 Sónya, felt herself to blame toward her, and imagined that her
wealth had influenced Nicholas’ choice. She could not find fault with
Sónya 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 Natásha about Sónya and about her
own injustice toward her.

“You know,” said Natásha, “you have read the Gospels a great deal—there
is a passage in them that just fits Sónya.”

“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 Natásha that those words in the Gospel must be
understood differently, yet looking at Sónya she agreed with Natásha’s
explanation. It really seemed that Sónya 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 Rostóvs’ and Bolkónskis’ 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.