War and Peace

arly in the year 1806 Nicholas Rostóv returned home on leave. Denísov
was going home to Vorónezh and Rostóv persuaded him to travel with him
as far as Moscow and to stay with him there. Meeting a comrade at
the last post station but one before Moscow, Denísov had drunk three
bottles of wine with him and, despite the jolting ruts across the
snow-covered road, did not once wake up on the way to Moscow, but lay
at the bottom of the sleigh beside Rostóv, who grew more and more
impatient the nearer they got to Moscow.

“How much longer? How much longer? Oh, these insufferable streets,
shops, bakers’ signboards, street lamps, and sleighs!” thought
Rostóv, when their leave permits had been passed at the town gate and
they had entered Moscow.

“Denísov! We’re here! He’s asleep,” he added, leaning forward
with his whole body as if in that position he hoped to hasten the speed
of the sleigh.

Denísov gave no answer.

“There’s the corner at the crossroads, where the cabman, Zakhár,
has his stand, and there’s Zakhár himself and still the same horse!
And here’s the little shop where we used to buy gingerbread! Can’t
you hurry up? Now then!”

“Which house is it?” asked the driver.

“Why, that one, right at the end, the big one. Don’t you see?
That’s our house,” said Rostóv. “Of course, it’s our house!
Denísov, Denísov! We’re almost there!”

Denísov raised his head, coughed, and made no answer.

“Dmítri,” said Rostóv to his valet on the box, “those lights are
in our house, aren’t they?”

“Yes, sir, and there’s a light in your father’s study.”

“Then they’ve not gone to bed yet? What do you think? Mind now,
don’t forget to put out my new coat,” added Rostóv, fingering his
new mustache. “Now then, get on,” he shouted to the driver. “Do
wake up, Váska!” he went on, turning to Denísov, whose head
was again nodding. “Come, get on! You shall have three rubles for
vodka—get on!” Rostóv shouted, when the sleigh was only three
houses from his door. It seemed to him the horses were not moving at
all. At last the sleigh bore to the right, drew up at an entrance, and
Rostóv saw overhead the old familiar cornice with a bit of plaster
broken off, the porch, and the post by the side of the pavement. He
sprang out before the sleigh stopped, and ran into the hall. The house
stood cold and silent, as if quite regardless of who had come to it.
There was no one in the hall. “Oh God! Is everyone all right?”
he thought, stopping for a moment with a sinking heart, and then
immediately starting to run along the hall and up the warped steps of
the familiar staircase. The well-known old door handle, which always
angered the countess when it was not properly cleaned, turned as loosely
as ever. A solitary tallow candle burned in the anteroom.

Old Michael was asleep on the chest. Prokófy, the footman, who was
so strong that he could lift the back of the carriage from behind, sat
plaiting slippers out of cloth selvedges. He looked up at the opening
door and his expression of sleepy indifference suddenly changed to one
of delighted amazement.

“Gracious heavens! The young count!” he cried, recognizing his
young master. “Can it be? My treasure!” and Prokófy, trembling with
excitement, rushed toward the drawing room door, probably in order to
announce him, but, changing his mind, came back and stooped to kiss the
young man’s shoulder.

“All well?” asked Rostóv, drawing away his arm.

“Yes, God be thanked! Yes! They’ve just finished supper. Let me have
a look at you, your excellency.”

“Is everything quite all right?”

“The Lord be thanked, yes!”

Rostóv, who had completely forgotten Denísov, not wishing anyone to
forestall him, threw off his fur coat and ran on tiptoe through the
large dark ballroom. All was the same: there were the same old card
tables and the same chandelier with a cover over it; but someone had
already seen the young master, and, before he had reached the drawing
room, something flew out from a side door like a tornado and began
hugging and kissing him. Another and yet another creature of the same
kind sprang from a second door and a third; more hugging, more kissing,
more outcries, and tears of joy. He could not distinguish which was
Papa, which Natásha, and which Pétya. Everyone shouted, talked, and
kissed him at the same time. Only his mother was not there, he noticed
that.

“And I did not know... Nicholas... My darling!...”

“Here he is... our own... Kólya, * dear fellow... How he has
changed!... Where are the candles?... Tea!...”

* Nicholas.

“And me, kiss me!”

“Dearest... and me!”

Sónya, Natásha, Pétya, Anna Mikháylovna, Véra, and the old count
were all hugging him, and the serfs, men and maids, flocked into the
room, exclaiming and oh-ing and ah-ing.

Pétya, clinging to his legs, kept shouting, “And me too!”

Natásha, after she had pulled him down toward her and covered his face
with kisses, holding him tight by the skirt of his coat, sprang away and
pranced up and down in one place like a goat and shrieked piercingly.

All around were loving eyes glistening with tears of joy, and all around
were lips seeking a kiss.

Sónya too, all rosy red, clung to his arm and, radiant with bliss,
looked eagerly toward his eyes, waiting for the look for which she
longed. Sónya now was sixteen and she was very pretty, especially at
this moment of happy, rapturous excitement. She gazed at him, not taking
her eyes off him, and smiling and holding her breath. He gave her a
grateful look, but was still expectant and looking for someone. The old
countess had not yet come. But now steps were heard at the door, steps
so rapid that they could hardly be his mother’s.

Yet it was she, dressed in a new gown which he did not know, made since
he had left. All the others let him go, and he ran to her. When they
met, she fell on his breast, sobbing. She could not lift her face, but
only pressed it to the cold braiding of his hussar’s jacket. Denísov,
who had come into the room unnoticed by anyone, stood there and wiped
his eyes at the sight.

“Vasíli Denísov, your son’s friend,” he said, introducing
himself to the count, who was looking inquiringly at him.

“You are most welcome! I know, I know,” said the count, kissing and
embracing Denísov. “Nicholas wrote us... Natásha, Véra, look! Here
is Denísov!”

The same happy, rapturous faces turned to the shaggy figure of Denísov.

“Darling Denísov!” screamed Natásha, beside herself with rapture,
springing to him, putting her arms round him, and kissing him. This
escapade made everybody feel confused. Denísov blushed too, but smiled
and, taking Natásha’s hand, kissed it.

Denísov was shown to the room prepared for him, and the Rostóvs all
gathered round Nicholas in the sitting room.

The old countess, not letting go of his hand and kissing it every
moment, sat beside him: the rest, crowding round him, watched every
movement, word, or look of his, never taking their blissfully adoring
eyes off him. His brother and sisters struggled for the places nearest
to him and disputed with one another who should bring him his tea,
handkerchief, and pipe.

Rostóv was very happy in the love they showed him; but the first
moment of meeting had been so beatific that his present joy seemed
insufficient, and he kept expecting something more, more and yet more.

Next morning, after the fatigues of their journey, the travelers slept
till ten o’clock.

In the room next to their bedroom there was a confusion of sabers,
satchels, sabretaches, open portmanteaus, and dirty boots. Two freshly
cleaned pairs with spurs had just been placed by the wall. The servants
were bringing in jugs and basins, hot water for shaving, and their
well-brushed clothes. There was a masculine odor and a smell of tobacco.

“Hallo, Gwíska—my pipe!” came Vasíli Denísov’s husky voice.
“Wostóv, get up!”

Rostóv, rubbing his eyes that seemed glued together, raised his
disheveled head from the hot pillow.

“Why, is it late?”

“Late! It’s nearly ten o’clock,” answered Natásha’s voice.
A rustle of starched petticoats and the whispering and laughter of
girls’ voices came from the adjoining room. The door was opened a
crack and there was a glimpse of something blue, of ribbons, black hair,
and merry faces. It was Natásha, Sónya, and Pétya, who had come to
see whether they were getting up.

“Nicholas! Get up!” Natásha’s voice was again heard at the door.

“Directly!”

Meanwhile, Pétya, having found and seized the sabers in the outer room,
with the delight boys feel at the sight of a military elder brother, and
forgetting that it was unbecoming for the girls to see men undressed,
opened the bedroom door.

“Is this your saber?” he shouted.

The girls sprang aside. Denísov hid his hairy legs under the blanket,
looking with a scared face at his comrade for help. The door, having let
Pétya in, closed again. A sound of laughter came from behind it.

“Nicholas! Come out in your dressing gown!” said Natásha’s voice.

“Is this your saber?” asked Pétya. “Or is it yours?” he said,
addressing the black-mustached Denísov with servile deference.

Rostóv hurriedly put something on his feet, drew on his dressing gown,
and went out. Natásha had put on one spurred boot and was just getting
her foot into the other. Sónya, when he came in, was twirling round and
was about to expand her dresses into a balloon and sit down. They were
dressed alike, in new pale-blue frocks, and were both fresh, rosy, and
bright. Sónya ran away, but Natásha, taking her brother’s arm, led
him into the sitting room, where they began talking. They hardly gave
one another time to ask questions and give replies concerning a thousand
little matters which could not interest anyone but themselves. Natásha
laughed at every word he said or that she said herself, not because what
they were saying was amusing, but because she felt happy and was unable
to control her joy which expressed itself by laughter.

“Oh, how nice, how splendid!” she said to everything.

Rostóv felt that, under the influence of the warm rays of love, that
childlike smile which had not once appeared on his face since he left
home now for the first time after eighteen months again brightened his
soul and his face.

“No, but listen,” she said, “now you are quite a man, aren’t
you? I’m awfully glad you’re my brother.” She touched his
mustache. “I want to know what you men are like. Are you the same as
we? No?”

“Why did Sónya run away?” asked Rostóv.

“Ah, yes! That’s a whole long story! How are you going to speak to
her—thou or you?”

“As may happen,” said Rostóv.

“No, call her you, please! I’ll tell you all about it some other
time. No, I’ll tell you now. You know Sónya’s my dearest friend.
Such a friend that I burned my arm for her sake. Look here!”

She pulled up her muslin sleeve and showed him a red scar on her long,
slender, delicate arm, high above the elbow on that part that is covered
even by a ball dress.

“I burned this to prove my love for her. I just heated a ruler in the
fire and pressed it there!”

Sitting on the sofa with the little cushions on its arms, in what used
to be his old schoolroom, and looking into Natásha’s wildly bright
eyes, Rostóv re-entered that world of home and childhood which had no
meaning for anyone else, but gave him some of the best joys of his life;
and the burning of an arm with a ruler as a proof of love did not seem
to him senseless, he understood and was not surprised at it.

“Well, and is that all?” he asked.

“We are such friends, such friends! All that ruler business was just
nonsense, but we are friends forever. She, if she loves anyone, does it
for life, but I don’t understand that, I forget quickly.”

“Well, what then?”

“Well, she loves me and you like that.”

Natásha suddenly flushed.

“Why, you remember before you went away?... Well, she says you are to
forget all that.... She says: ‘I shall love him always, but let him be
free.’ Isn’t that lovely and noble! Yes, very noble? Isn’t it?”
asked Natásha, so seriously and excitedly that it was evident that what
she was now saying she had talked of before, with tears.

Rostóv became thoughtful.

“I never go back on my word,” he said. “Besides, Sónya is so
charming that only a fool would renounce such happiness.”

“No, no!” cried Natásha, “she and I have already talked it over.
We knew you’d say so. But it won’t do, because you see, if you say
that—if you consider yourself bound by your promise—it will seem as
if she had not meant it seriously. It makes it as if you were marrying
her because you must, and that wouldn’t do at all.”

Rostóv saw that it had been well considered by them. Sónya had already
struck him by her beauty on the preceding day. Today, when he had caught
a glimpse of her, she seemed still more lovely. She was a charming girl
of sixteen, evidently passionately in love with him (he did not doubt
that for an instant). Why should he not love her now, and even marry
her, Rostóv thought, but just now there were so many other pleasures
and interests before him! “Yes, they have taken a wise decision,” he
thought, “I must remain free.”

“Well then, that’s excellent,” said he. “We’ll talk it over
later on. Oh, how glad I am to have you!”

“Well, and are you still true to Borís?” he continued.

“Oh, what nonsense!” cried Natásha, laughing. “I don’t think
about him or anyone else, and I don’t want anything of the kind.”

“Dear me! Then what are you up to now?”

“Now?” repeated Natásha, and a happy smile lit up her face. “Have
you seen Duport?”

“No.”

“Not seen Duport—the famous dancer? Well then, you won’t
understand. That’s what I’m up to.”

Curving her arms, Natásha held out her skirts as dancers do, ran back
a few steps, turned, cut a caper, brought her little feet sharply
together, and made some steps on the very tips of her toes.

“See, I’m standing! See!” she said, but could not maintain herself
on her toes any longer. “So that’s what I’m up to! I’ll never
marry anyone, but will be a dancer. Only don’t tell anyone.”

Rostóv laughed so loud and merrily that Denísov, in his bedroom, felt
envious and Natásha could not help joining in.

“No, but don’t you think it’s nice?” she kept repeating.

“Nice! And so you no longer wish to marry Borís?”

Natásha flared up. “I don’t want to marry anyone. And I’ll tell
him so when I see him!”

“Dear me!” said Rostóv.

“But that’s all rubbish,” Natásha chattered on. “And is
Denísov nice?” she asked.

“Yes, indeed!”

“Oh, well then, good-by: go and dress. Is he very terrible,
Denísov?”

“Why terrible?” asked Nicholas. “No, Váska is a splendid
fellow.”

“You call him Váska? That’s funny! And is he very nice?”

“Very.”

“Well then, be quick. We’ll all have breakfast together.”

And Natásha rose and went out of the room on tiptoe, like a ballet
dancer, but smiling as only happy girls of fifteen can smile. When
Rostóv met Sónya in the drawing room, he reddened. He did not know
how to behave with her. The evening before, in the first happy moment of
meeting, they had kissed each other, but today they felt it could not
be done; he felt that everybody, including his mother and sisters, was
looking inquiringly at him and watching to see how he would behave
with her. He kissed her hand and addressed her not as thou but as
you—Sónya. But their eyes met and said thou, and exchanged tender
kisses. Her looks asked him to forgive her for having dared, by
Natásha’s intermediacy, to remind him of his promise, and then
thanked him for his love. His looks thanked her for offering him his
freedom and told her that one way or another he would never cease to
love her, for that would be impossible.

“How strange it is,” said Véra, selecting a moment when all were
silent, “that Sónya and Nicholas now say you to one another and meet
like strangers.”

Véra’s remark was correct, as her remarks always were, but, like
most of her observations, it made everyone feel uncomfortable, not
only Sónya, Nicholas, and Natásha, but even the old countess,
who—dreading this love affair which might hinder Nicholas from making
a brilliant match—blushed like a girl.

Denísov, to Rostóv’s surprise, appeared in the drawing room with
pomaded hair, perfumed, and in a new uniform, looking just as smart as
he made himself when going into battle, and he was more amiable to the
ladies and gentlemen than Rostóv had ever expected to see him.