War And Peace

Countess Marya was jealous of her husband’s passion, and sorry she couldn’t share it with him, but she couldn’t begin to understand the delights and disappointments that came his way in this other world to which she had no access. She couldn’t understand why he seemed so excited and exuberant when he came in for a drink of tea with her after hours of sowing, mowing or harvesting, having got up at the crack of dawn to spend all morning in the fields or on the threshing-floor. She couldn’t understand why he was so enthusiastic when he went on and on about Matvey Yermishin, a successful peasant farmer who had been up all night with his family carting his sheaves, and got his harvest stacked before anyone else had started reaping. She couldn’t understand why he was smiling under his moustache and winking at her as he walked out through the window on to the verandah to watch a mild drizzle descending on young oats that had been wilting from the dry weather, or why, when the wind blew an ominous cloud away from them while they were mowing or harvesting, he would come in from the barn flushed, sunburnt and covered in sweat, with his hair reeking of wormwood and gentian, rub his hands together and say with such glee, ‘Give me one more day and it’ll all be in, mine and theirs.’

Something else she could understand even less was how on earth he, with all his goodheartedness and eternal readiness to anticipate her wishes, almost went berserk when she presented him with petitions from peasants or their women who had come to her asking to be excused from work, and how he, her good, kind Nicolas, could refuse point blank and tell her quite sharply to keep her nose out of his business. She felt as if he lived in a much-loved separate world that was governed by laws she couldn’t understand.

Sometimes in an effort to understand him she would talk about all the good he was doing in looking after the welfare of his subjects, but he would round on her and say, ‘Oh no, not that. I never even think about it. I wouldn’t go out of my way for their benefit. It’s all airy-fairy nonsense, women’s talk, all this doing good to your neighbour. I don’t want our children to go short. I’ve got to build up our fortunes in my lifetime, and that’s all there is to it. And to do that you have to have discipline. You have to be hard!’ he would declare, clenching his fist with great passion. ‘And of course you have to be fair as well,’ he would add, ‘because if the peasant is naked and starving and he’s down to his last scraggy horse he’s no good to man or beast.’

And it was probably because Nikolay would not entertain any idea that he was doing things for other people, or being virtuous, that everything he attempted bore fruit. His wealth increased by leaps and bounds, serfs from nearby estates came and asked him to buy them in, and long after he was dead and gone his rule was reverently preserved in folk memory. ‘What a master ’e was . . . Put the peasants first and ’imself second, ’e did. Didn’t stand no nonsense neither. Right good master ’e was!’

CHAPTER 8

The one thing that worried Nikolay in the management of his serfs was his quick temper along with an old habit, acquired in the hussars, of being too ready with his fists. At first he saw nothing wrong with this, but in the second year of his married life his views on this form of discipline underwent a sudden change.

One day during the summer he had sent for the village elder from Bogucharovo, the man who had taken over when Dron died and now stood accused of various acts of fraud and negligence. Nikolay went out to the steps to meet him, and the first answers were barely out of the man’s mouth when shouts and blows were heard in the hall. Later on, when he came back in for lunch, Nikolay went over to his wife, who was sitting with her head bent low over her embroidery frame, and started telling her in the usual way about everything he had been doing during the morning, including the business with the elder from Bogucharovo. Countess Marya sat there in the same position, tight-lipped, turning alternately red and pale and not responding.

‘Insolent swine,’ he said, flaring up at the mere recollection. ‘Should have told me he was drunk and couldn’t see properly . . . Hey, what’s all this, Marie?’ he asked suddenly.

Countess Marya looked up, started to say something but looked straight down again and tightened her lips.

‘What is it? What’s wrong, my love?’ Tears always improved Countess Marya’s rather plain looks. Pain and anger never made her cry, but sadness and pity always did. And when she cried her luminous eyes took on an irresistible loveliness.

The moment Nikolay took her by the hand she lost control and burst into tears.

‘Nikolay, I saw you . . . He was in the wrong, but you . . . why did you do that? Nikolay!’ and she buried her face in her hands.