War and Peace

hen 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.

“It means that Anna Makárovna has finished her stocking,” said Countess
Mary.

“Oh, I’ll go and see,” said Pierre, jumping up. “You know,” he added,
stopping at the door, “why I’m especially fond of that music? It is
always the first thing that tells me all is well. When I was driving
here today, the nearer I got to the house the more anxious I grew. As I
entered the anteroom I heard Andrúsha’s peals of laughter and that meant
that all was well.”

“I know! I know that feeling,” said Nicholas. “But I mustn’t go
there—those stockings are to be a surprise for me.”

Pierre went to the children, and the shouting and laughter grew still
louder.

“Come, Anna Makárovna,” Pierre’s voice was heard saying, “come here into
the middle of the room and at the word of command, ‘One, two,’ and
when I say ‘three’... You stand here, and you in my arms—well now! One,
two!...” said Pierre, and a silence followed: “three!” and a rapturously
breathless cry of children’s voices filled the room. “Two, two!” they
shouted.

This meant two stockings, which by a secret process known only to
herself Anna Makárovna used to knit at the same time on the same
needles, and which, when they were ready, she always triumphantly drew,
one out of the other, in the children’s presence.