War And Peace: Book 7 - CHAPTER X

作者: Leo Tolstoy

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Author: Leo Tolstoy

“DOES IT HAPPEN to you,” said Natasha to her brother, when they were

settled in the divan-room, “to feel that nothing will ever happen—nothing;

that all that is good is past? And it's not exactly a bored feeling,

but melancholy?”

“I should think so!” said he. “It has sometimes happened to me that when

everything's all right, and every one's cheerful, it suddenly strikes one that

one's sick of it all, and all must die. Once in the regiment when I did not go

to some merrymaking, and there the music was playing…and I felt all at once so

dreary…”

“Oh, I know that feeling; I know it, I know it,” Natasha assented; “even when

I was quite little, I used to have that feeling. Do you remember, once I was

punished for eating some plums, and you were all dancing, and I sat in the

schoolroom sobbing. I shall never forget it; I felt sad and sorry for every one,

sorry for myself, and for every—every one. And what was the chief point, I

wasn't to blame,” said Natasha; “do you remember?”

“I remember,” said Nikolay. “I remember that I came to you afterwards, and I

longed to comfort you, but you know, I felt ashamed to. Awfully funny we used to

be. I had a wooden doll then, and I wanted to give it you. Do you

remember?”

“And do you remember,” said Natasha, with a pensive smile, “how long, long

ago, when we were quite little, uncle called us into the study in the old house,

and it was dark; we went in, and all at once there stood…”

“A Negro,” Nikolay finished her sentence with a smile of delight; “of course,

I remember. To this day I don't know whether there really was a Negro, or

whether we dreamed it, or were told about it.”

“He was grey-headed, do you remember, and had white teeth; he stood and

looked at us…”

“Do you remember, Sonya?” asked Nikolay.

“Yes, yes, I do remember something too,” Sonya answered timidly.

“You know I have often asked both papa and mamma about that Negro,” said

Natasha. “They say there never was a Negro at all. But you remember him!”

“Of course, I do. I remember his teeth, as if it were to-day.”

“How strange it is, as though it were a dream. I like that.”

“And do you remember how we were rolling eggs in the big hall, and all of a

sudden two old women came in, and began whirling round on the carpet. Did that

happen or not? Do you remember what fun it was?”

“Yes. And do you remember how papa, in a blue coat, fired a gun off on the

steps?”

Smiling with enjoyment, they went through their reminiscences; not the

melancholy memories of old age, but the romantic memories of youth, those

impressions of the remotest past in which dreamland melts into reality. They

laughed with quiet pleasure.

Sonya was, as always, left behind by them, though their past had been spent

together.

Sonya did not remember much of what they recalled, and what she did remember,

did not rouse the same romantic feeling in her. She was simply enjoying their

pleasure, and trying to share it.

She could only enter into it fully when they recalled Sonya's first arrival.

Sonya described how she had been afraid of Nikolay, because he had cording on

his jacket, and the nurse had told her that they would tie her up in cording

too.

“And I remember, I was told you were found under a cabbage,” said Natasha;

“and I remember I didn't dare to disbelieve it then, though I knew it was

untrue, and I felt so uncomfortable.”

During this conversation a maid popped her head in at a door leading into the

divan-room.

“Miss, they've brought you a cock,” she said in a whisper.

“I don't want it, Polya; tell them to take it away,” said Natasha.

In the middle of their talk in the divan-room, Dimmler came into the room,

and went up to the harp that stood in the corner. He took off the cloth-case,

and the harp gave a jarring sound. “Edward Karlitch, do, please, play my

favourite nocturne of M. Field,” said the voice of the old countess from the

drawing-room.

Dimmler struck a chord, and turning to Natasha, Nikolay, and Sonya, he said,

“How quiet you young people are!”

“Yes, we're talking philosophy,” said Natasha, looking round for a minute and

going on with the conversation. They were talking now about dreams.

Dimmler began to play. Natasha went noiselessly on tiptoe to the table, took

the candle, carried it away, and going back, sat quietly in her place. It was

dark in the room, especially where they were sitting on the sofa, but the silver

light of the full moon shone in at the big windows and lay on the floor.

“Do you know, I think,” said Natasha, in a whisper, moving up to Nikolay and

Sonya, when Dimmler had finished, and still sat, faintly twanging the strings,

in evident uncertainty whether to leave off playing or begin something new,

“that one goes on remembering, and remembering; one remembers till one recalls

what happened before one was in this world.…”

“That's metempsychosis,” said Sonya, who had been good at lessons, and

remembered all she had learned. “The Egyptians used to believe that our souls

had been in animals, and would go into animals again.”

“No, do you know, I don't believe that we were once in animals,” said

Natasha, still in the same whisper, though the music was over; “but I know for

certain that we were once angels somewhere beyond, and we have been here, and

that's why we remember everything.…”

“May I join you?” said Dimmler, coming up quietly, and he sat down by

them.

“If we had been angels, why should we have fallen lower?” said Nikolay. “No,

that can't be!”

“Not lower…who told you we were lower?…This is how I know I have existed

before,” Natasha replied, with conviction: “The soul is immortal, you know…so,

if I am to live for ever, I have lived before too, I have lived for all

eternity.”

“Yes, but it's hard for us to conceive of eternity,” said Dimmler, who had

joined the young people, with a mildly condescending smile, but now talked as

quietly and seriously as they did.

“Why is it hard to conceive of eternity?” said Natasha. “There will be

to-day, and there will be to-morrow, and there will be for ever, and yesterday

has been, and the day before.…”

“Natasha! now it's your turn. Sing me something,” called the voice of the

countess. “Why are you sitting there so quietly, like conspirators?”

“Mamma, I don't want to a bit!” said Natasha, but she got up as she said

it.

None of them, not even Dimmler, who was not young, wanted to break off the

conversation, and come out of the corner of the divan-room; but Natasha stood

up; and Nikolay sat down to the clavichord. Standing, as she always did, in the

middle of the room, and choosing the place where the resonance was greatest,

Natasha began singing her mother's favourite song.

She had said she did not want to sing, but it was long since she had sung,

and long before she sang again as she sang that evening. Count Ilya Andreitch

listened to her singing from his study, where he was talking to Mitenka, and

like a schoolboy in haste to finish his lesson and run out to play, he blundered

in his orders to the steward, and at last paused, and Mitenka stood silent and

smiling before him, listening too. Nikolay never took his eyes off his sister,

and drew his breath when she did. Sonya, as she listened, thought of the vast

difference between her and her friend, and how impossible it was for her to be

in ever so slight a degree fascinating like her cousin. The old countess sat

with a blissful, but mournful smile, and tears in her eyes, and now and then she

shook her head. She, too, was thinking of Natasha and of her own youth, and of

how there was something terrible and unnatural in Natasha's marrying Prince

Andrey.

Dimmler, sitting by the countess, listened with closed eyes. “No, countess,”

he said, at last, “that's a European talent; she has no need of teaching: that

softness, tenderness, strength…”

“Ah, I'm afraid for her, I'm afraid,” said the countess, not remembering with

whom she was speaking. Her motherly instinct told her that there was too much of

something in Natasha, and that it would prevent her being happy.

Natasha had not finished singing when fourteen-year-old Petya ran in great

excitement into the room to announce the arrival of the mummers.

Natasha stopped abruptly.

“Idiot!” she screamed at her brother. She ran to a chair, sank into it, and

broke into such violent sobbing that it was a long while before she could

stop.

“It's nothing, mamma, it's nothing really, it's all right; Petya startled

me,” she said, trying to smile; but the tears still flowed, and the sobs still

choked her.

The mummers—house-serfs dressed up as bears, Turks, tavern-keepers, and

ladies—awe-inspiring or comic figures, at first huddled shyly together in the

vestibule, bringing in with them the freshness of the cold outside, and a

feeling of gaiety. Then, hiding behind one another, they crowded together in the

big hall; and at first with constraint, but afterwards with more liveliness and

unanimity, they started singing songs, and performing dances, and songs with

dancing, and playing Christmas games. The countess after identifying them, and

laughing at their costumes, went away to the drawing-room. Count Ilya Andreitch

sat with a beaming smile in the big hall, praising their performances. The young

people had disappeared.

Half an hour later there appeared in the hall among the other mummers an old

lady in a crinoline—this was Nikolay. Petya was a Turkish lady, Dimmler was a

clown, Natasha a hussar, and Sonya a Circassian with eyebrows and moustaches

smudged with burnt cork.

After those of the household who were not dressed up had expressed

condescending wonder and approval, and had failed to recognise them, the young

people began to think their costumes so good that they must display them to some

one else.

Nikolay, who wanted to drive them all in his sledge, as the road was in

capital condition, proposed to drive to their so-called uncle's, taking about a

dozen of the house-serfs in their mummer-dress with them.

“No; why should you disturb the old fellow?” said the countess. “Besides you

wouldn't have room to turn round there. If you must go, let it be to the

Melyukovs'.”

Madame Melyukov was a widow with a family of children of various ages, and a

number of tutors and governesses living in her house, four versts from the

Rostovs'.

“That's a good idea, my love,” the old count assented, beginning to be

aroused. “Only let me dress up and I'll go with you. I'll make Pashette open her

eyes.”

But the countess would not agree to the count's going; for several days he

had had a bad leg. It was decided that the count must not go, but that if Luisa

Ivanovna (Madame Schoss) would go with them, the young ladies might go to Madame

Melyukov's. Sonya, usually so shy and reticent, was more urgent than any in

persuading Luisa Ivanovna not to refuse.

Sonya's disguise was the best of all. Her moustaches and eyebrows were

extraordinarily becoming to her. Every one told her she looked very pretty, and

she was in a mood of eager energy unlike her. Some inner voice told her that now

or never her fate would be sealed, and in her masculine attire she seemed quite

another person. Luisa Ivanovna consented to go; and half an hour later four

sledges with bells drove up to the steps, their runners crunching, with a

clanging sound, over the frozen snow.

Natasha was foremost in setting the tone of holiday gaiety; and that gaiety,

reflected from one to another, grew wilder and wilder, and reached its climax

when they all went out into the frost, and talking, and calling to one another,

laughing and shouting, got into the sledges.

Two of the sledges were the common household sledges; the third was the old

count's, with a trotting horse from Orlov's famous stud; the fourth, Nikolay's

own, with his own short, shaggy, raven horse in the shafts. Nikolay, in his old

lady's crinoline and a hussar's cloak belted over it, stood up in the middle of

the sledge picking up the reins. It was so light that he could see the metal

discs of the harness shining in the moonlight, and the eyes of the horses

looking round in alarm at the noise made by the party under the portico of the

approach.

Sonya, Natasha, Madame Schoss, and two maids got into Nikolay's sledge. In

the count's sledge were Dimmler with his wife and Petya; the other mummers were

seated in the other two sledges.

“You go ahead, Zahar!” shouted Nikolay to his father's coachman, so as to

have a chance of overtaking him on the road.

The count's sledge with Dimmler and the others of his party started forward,

its runners creaking as though they were frozen to the snow, and the deep-toned

bell clanging. The trace-horses pressed close to the shafts and sticking in the

snow kicked it up, hard and glittering as sugar.

Nikolay followed the first sledge: behind him he heard the noise and crunch

of the other two. At first they drove at a slow trot along the narrow road. As

they drove by the garden, the shadows of the leafless trees often lay right

across the road and hid the bright moonlight. But as soon as they were out of

their grounds, the snowy plain, glittering like a diamond with bluish lights in

it, lay stretched out on all sides, all motionless and bathed in moonlight. Now

and again a hole gave the first sledge a jolt; the next was jolted in just the

same way, and the next, and the sledges followed one another, rudely breaking

the iron-bound stillness.

“A hare's track, a lot of tracks!” Natasha's voice rang out in the

frost-bound air.

“How light it is, Nikolenka,” said the voice of Sonya.

Nikolay looked round at Sonya, and bent down to look at her face closer. It

was a quite new, charming face with black moustaches, and eyebrows that peeped

up at him from the sable fur—so close yet so distant—in the moonlight.

“That used to be Sonya,” thought Nikolay. He looked closer at her and

smiled.

“What is it, Nikolenka?”

“Nothing,” he said, and turned to his horses again.

As they came out on the trodden highroad, polished by sledge runners, and all

cut up by the tracks of spiked horseshoes visible in the snow in the

moonlight—the horses of their own accord tugged at the reins and quickened their

pace. The left trace-horse, arching his head, pulled in jerks at his traces. The

shaft-horse swayed to and fro, pricking up his ears as though to ask: “Are we to

begin or is it too soon?” Zahar's sledge could be distinctly seen, black against

the white snow, a long way ahead now, and its deep-toned bell seemed to be

getting further away. They could hear shouts and laughter and talk from his

sledge.

“Now then, my darlings!” shouted Nikolay, pulling a rein on one side, and

moving his whip hand. It was only from the wind seeming to blow more freely in

their faces, and from the tugging of the pulling trace-horses, quickening their

trot, that they saw how fast the sledge was flying along. Nikolay looked behind.

The other sledges, with crunching runners, with shouts, and cracking of whips,

were hurrying after them. Their shaft-horse was moving vigorously under the

yoke, with no sign of slackening, and every token of being ready to go faster

and faster if required.

Nikolay overtook the first sledge. They drove down a hill and into a wide,

trodden road by a meadow near a river.

“Where are we?” Nikolay wondered. “Possibly Kosoy Meadow, I suppose. But no;

this is something new I never saw before. This is not the Kosoy Meadow nor

Demkin hill. It's something—there's no knowing what. It's something new and

fairy-like. Well, come what may!” And shouting to his horses, he began to drive

by the first sledge. Zahar pulled up his horses and turned his face, which was

white with hoar-frost to the eyebrows.

Nikolay let his horses go; Zahar, stretching his hands forward, urged his on.

“Come, hold on, master,” said he.

The sledges dashed along side by side, even more swiftly, and the horses'

hoofs flew up and down more and more quickly. Nikolay began to get ahead. Zahar,

still keeping his hands stretched forward, raised one hand with the reins.

“Nonsense, master,” he shouted. Nikolay put his three horses into a gallop

and outstripped Zahar. The horses scattered the fine dry snow in their faces;

close by they heard the ringing of the bells and the horses' legs moving rapidly

out of step, and they saw the shadows of the sledge behind. From different sides

came the crunch of runners over the snow, and the shrieks of girls. Stopping his

horses again, Nikolay looked round him. All around him lay still the same

enchanted plain, bathed in moon-light, with stars scattered over its

surface.

“Zahar's shouting that I'm to turn to the left, but why to the left?” thought

Nikolay. “Are we really going to the Melyukovs'; is this really Melyukovka? God

knows where we are going, and God knows what is going to become of us—and very

strange and nice it is what is happening to us.” He looked round in the

sledge.

“Look, his moustache and his eyelashes are all white,” said one of the

strange, pretty, unfamiliar figures sitting by him, with fine moustaches and

eyebrows.

“I believe that was Natasha,” thought Nikolay; “and that was Madame Schoss;

but perhaps it's not so; and that Circassian with the moustaches I don't know,

but I love her.”

“Aren't you cold?” he asked them. They laughed and did not answer. Dimmler

from the sledge behind shouted, probably something funny, but they could not

make out what he said.

“Yes, yes,” voices answered, laughing.

But now came a sort of enchanted forest with shifting, black shadows, and the

glitter of diamonds, and a flight of marble steps, and silver roofs of enchanted

buildings, and the shrill whine of some beasts. “And if it really is Melyukovka,

then it's stranger than ever that after driving, God knows where, we should come

to Melyukovka,” thought Nikolay.

It certainly was Melyukovka, and footmen and maid-servants were running out

with lights and beaming faces.

“Who is it?” was asked from the entrance.

“The mummers from the count's; I can see by the horses,” answered voices.

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