War And Peace

He was getting by on less money because his life was now coherent. The greatest luxury in his former lifestyle, the possibility of completely changing it at a moment’s notice, was something Pierre no longer had and no longer wanted. He felt that his lifestyle was now settled once and for all till the day of his death; he had no power to change it, and that made it all cheaper.

Pierre had a happy smile on his face as he unpacked his purchases.

‘How about that?’ he said as he unfolded a length of material like a draper. Natasha was sitting opposite with her eldest daughter on her knee, and her sparkling eyes darted from her husband to the things he was putting on display.

‘Is that for Madame Belov? Splendid.’ She felt it for quality. ‘What was it, a rouble a yard?’ Pierre told her how much.

‘That’s a lot,’ said Natasha. ‘Anyway, the children will be delighted, and so will Mamma. But you shouldn’t have bought me this,’ she added, unable to suppress a smile as she admired one of the gold combs set with pearls that were just coming in.

‘It’s Adèle’s fault. She kept on at me to buy it,’ said Pierre.

‘When shall I wear it?’ Natasha stuck it in her coil of hair. ‘It’ll do nicely when we bring little Masha out. Maybe they’ll be in fashion again. Come on then. Let’s go in.’

They scooped up the presents, and set off, first for the nursery, then to see the countess.

As usual the countess was sitting playing patience with Madame Belov when Pierre and Natasha came into the drawing-room with parcels under their arms.

The countess was now in her sixties. Her hair was completely grey, and she wore a cap with a frill that went right round her face. Her face was covered in wrinkles, her top lip had sunk in, and her eyes had no sparkle.

After her son and her husband had died so suddenly one after another she had felt like a creature left behind in this world by mistake, with nothing to live for and no meaning to her existence. She ate and drank, slept and lay awake, but she didn’t live. Life made no impression on her. All she wanted from life was to be left in peace, and real peace would only be found in death. But death was a long time coming and meanwhile she had to go on living, to put her time and her vital forces to some kind of use. She manifested in the highest degree something you see only in very small children and in very old people. She led an existence without any visible aim; all that could be seen in it was the need to exercise various faculties and capabilities. She had to do a little eating, sleeping, thinking, talking, weeping, working, getting angry and so on, but only because she had a stomach, brain, muscles, nerves and liver. She did all these things not from any external motivation, as people do when they are fully alive and the aim they are striving towards conceals the underlying aim of exercising their faculties. When she talked it was only because she needed physical exercise for her lungs and tongue. When she cried like a child it was because she needed to clear the airways, and so on. What would have been an aim for people who are fully alive for her was obviously nothing more than a pretext.

So, for example, in the morning, especially if she had eaten something too fatty the day before, she might feel the need to be angry with someone and she would latch on to the nearest pretext – Madame Belov’s deafness.

From the far end of the room she would launch forth in a low voice.

‘I fancy it’s a little warmer today, my dear,’ she would whisper. And when Madame Belov replied, ‘No, I think they’re here now,’ she would mutter angrily, ‘Mercy on us, she’s so deaf and stupid!’

Her snuff was another pretext. It was either too dry or too damp, or perhaps too coarse. After these outbursts of irritability you could see the bile on her face. And to her maids the signs were unmistakable: they could tell when Madame Belov was going to be deaf again, when the snuff was going to be damp again, and when her face was going to turn yellow. Just as she had to give her bile something to work on, sometimes she felt the need to exercise what was left of her powers of thought, and the pretext for this was patience. When she needed to shed a few tears, the late count was the pretext. When she needed something to worry about, it would be Nikolay and the state of his health. When she wanted to come out with something spiteful, the pretext was Countess Marya. When she needed to exercise her organs of speech – usually about seven in the evening after she had had her little rest in a darkened room to let dinner digest – she would find a pretext in the retelling of old stories, always the same stories and the same listeners.