War And Peace

Thanks to Denisov it wasn’t long before the conversation over dinner became generalized and animated, and she said nothing more to her husband. When they got up from the table and went over to thank the old countess, Countess Marya held out her hand, kissed her husband and asked why he was angry with her.

‘You always look on the black side,’ he said. ‘It never occurred to me that I was angry.’

But the word ‘always’ implied something different: ‘Yes, I am angry, but I’m not saying why.’

Nikolay got on so well with his wife that even Sonya and the old countess, both of whom would have been envious enough to enjoy any discord between them, could never find anything to criticize them for, though there were occasional outbursts of hostility even between them. Sometimes – especially when they had just come through one of their happiest periods – a feeling of alienation and hostility would suddenly arise between them. It was a feeling that came upon them most frequently when Countess Marya was pregnant. And she was in this condition now.

‘Well, messieurs et mesdames,’ said Nikolay in a loud voice with a great show of bonhomie (which his wife saw as deliberately getting at her), ‘I’ve been on my feet since six o’clock this morning. Tomorrow’s my day of suffering. Today I can go and have a rest.’ And without a word to his wife he went off to the little sitting-room, and lay down on the sofa.

‘It’s always like that,’ thought Countess Marya. ‘He talks to anybody but me. I can see it. I can see it. I’m repulsive to him, especially in this condition.’ She looked down at her swollen belly and then glanced in the mirror at her pale, sallow, sunken face with its eyes that looked bigger than ever.

Everything riled her: Denisov’s shouting and guffawing, Natasha’s chatter and above all the quick glance from Sonya.

Sonya was always the first object for Countess Marya to rail against.

She sat on with her guests for a little while longer without taking in a word they were saying and then slipped out and went along to the nursery.

The children were perched on chairs playing at driving to Moscow, and they invited her to join in. She sat down and played with them for a while, but the thought of her husband and his uncalled-for bad mood wouldn’t leave her in peace. She got to her feet and tiptoed rather awkwardly down to the little sitting-room.

‘Perhaps he’s not asleep. I’ll have it out with him,’ she said to herself. Little Andrey, her elder boy, followed behind on tiptoe, mimicking her. His mother didn’t notice.

‘Marie dear, I think he’s asleep. He’s tired out,’ said Sonya, coming across her in the next room (Countess Marya seemed to come across her everywhere). ‘Don’t let Andrey wake him up.’

Countess Marya looked round, saw Andrey behind her and sensed that Sonya was right, which was enough in itself to make her go red in the face, and only just manage to bite back a cruel retort. She said nothing and to avoid the impression of obeying her she let him come on behind as she went up to the door, though she signalled for him to keep quiet. Sonya went out through another door. From the room where Nikolay was asleep his wife could hear his steady breathing, so familiar to her in every tone. As she listened she could see his smooth, handsome forehead, his moustache, the whole of the face she had so often stared at in the dead of the night while he was asleep. Nikolay stirred and cleared his throat. And at the same instant Andrey shouted from the doorway, ‘Papa, Mamma’s here!’

Countess Marya turned pale with dismay and signalled again to the little boy. He said no more, and a terrible silence ensued lasting almost a minute. She knew how Nikolay hated being woken up. Then suddenly through the door she heard him stir and clear his throat again, and in a tone of some irritation he said, ‘I never get a minute’s peace. Is that you Marie? Why did you bring him here?’

‘I just came to have a look . . . I didn’t see . . . I’m so sorry . . .’

Nikolay had a good cough and said nothing more. His wife went away, and took her son back to the nursery. Five minutes later little black-eyed three-year-old Natasha, her father’s pet, heard from her brother that Papa was asleep in Mamma’s little room, escaped unnoticed and ran in to see her father.

The black-eyed little girl rattled the door open with a bang, and her stumpy little legs were soon scurrying across to the sofa, where she took stock of the figure of her father asleep with his back to her, before standing on tiptoe and kissing him on the arm that was pillowing his head. Nikolay turned over with the gentlest of smiles on his face.

‘Natasha, Natasha!’ came the countess’s dismayed whisper from the doorway. ‘Papa’s having a nap.’

‘No, he’s not, Mamma,’ answered little Natasha with great certainty. ‘He’s laughing.’

Nikolay put his feet down on the floor, got up from the sofa and picked his little girl up in his arms.