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Volume I, Part Three, Chapter XIX

At the beginning of the year 1806 Nikolai Rostov returned on leave. Denisov was also going home to Voronezh, and Rostov persuaded him to travel with him as far as Moscow and to stay with them in their house. At the penultimate station, meeting a comrade, Denisov had drunk three bottles of wine with him and on approaching Moscow, in spite of the jolting of the road, did not wake up, but lay at the bottom of the post sleigh beside Rostov, who, as they approached Moscow, grew more and more impatient.

"Soon? Soon? Oh, these unbearable streets, shops, kalatches, lamps, cabmen!" thought Rostov, when they had already registered their leaves at the barrier and driven into Moscow.

— Denisov, we're here! He's asleep! — he said, leaning forward with his whole body as if he hoped by this position to hasten the movement of the sleigh. Denisov did not answer.

— Here is the corner-crossroads where Zakhar the cabman stands; here is Zakhar himself, and the same horse. Here is the little shop where we bought gingerbread. Soon? Well!

— To which house? — asked the driver.

— Why, over there at the end, to the big one, how can you not see! That's our house, — said Rostov, — you know, that's our house!

— Denisov! Denisov! We'll be there in a minute.

Denisov raised his head, coughed, and answered nothing.

— Dmitry, — Rostov addressed the footman on the box. — There's a light in our house, isn't there?

— Yes, indeed, sir, and there's a light in Papa's study.

— They haven't gone to bed yet? Eh? What do you think?

— See you don't forget to get me my new pelisse at once, — added Rostov, feeling his new mustache.

— Come on, get going, — he shouted to the driver. — Do wake up, Vasya, — he turned to Denisov, who had lowered his head again.

— Come on, get going, three rubles for vodka, get going! — shouted Rostov, when the sleigh was already three houses from the entrance. It seemed to him that the horses were not moving. At last the sleigh bore to the right to the entrance; over his head Rostov saw the familiar cornice with broken plaster, the porch, the sidewalk post. He jumped out of the sleigh while it was moving and ran into the porch. The house also stood motionless, unwelcoming, as if it had no concern with who had arrived in it. There was no one in the hall. "My God! is all well?" thought Rostov, stopping for a minute with a sinking heart and immediately starting to run further along the hall and up the familiar, crooked steps. The same old door handle of the lock, for the dirtiness of which the countess used to be angry, turned just as loosely. In the anteroom a single tallow candle was burning.

Old Mikhailo was asleep on the chest. Prokofy, the footman who used to ride behind the carriage, the one who was so strong that he could lift the carriage by the back, was sitting knitting bast shoes from selvages. He looked at the opened door, and his indifferent, sleepy expression suddenly transformed into an ecstatically frightened one.

— Good heavens! The young count! — he cried out, recognizing his young master. — What is this? My dear boy! — And Prokofy, trembling with emotion, rushed to the drawing-room door, probably to announce him, but evidently changed his mind again, came back, and fell on his young master's shoulder.

— Is everyone well? — asked Rostov, pulling his arm away from him.

— Thank God! Thank God for everything! they've only just had supper! Let me look at you, your excellency!

— Is everything quite all right?

— Thank God, thank God!

Rostov, having completely forgotten about Denisov, not wishing to let anyone forestall him, threw off his fur coat and ran on tiptoe into the dark, large hall. Everything was the same, the same card tables, the same chandelier in its cover; but someone had already seen the young master, and before he could reach the drawing room, something flew impetuously like a storm out of the side door and embraced him and began to kiss him. Another, a third such creature jumped out of another, a third door; more embraces, more kisses, more cries, tears of joy. He could not make out where or who was Papa, who was Natasha, who was Petya. Everyone was shouting, talking, and kissing him at the same time. Only his mother was not among them — that he remembered.

— And I didn't know... Nikolushka... my friend!

— Here he is... our own... My friend, Kolya... He's changed! There are no candles! Tea!

— Kiss me, too!

— Dearest... and me, too.

Sonya, Natasha, Petya, Anna Mikhailovna, Vera, the old count, embraced him; and the menservants and maids, filling the rooms, kept exclaiming and gasping.

Petya hung onto his legs.

— And me, too! — he shouted.

Natasha, after she had drawn him down to her and kissed all his face, sprang away from him and, holding on to the skirt of his pelisse, jumped like a goat all in one spot and squealed piercingly.

On all sides there were loving eyes shining with tears of joy, on all sides there were lips seeking a kiss.

Sonya, red as kumach, also held his hand and was all radiant with a blissful look fixed on his eyes, which she was waiting for. Sonya was already past sixteen, and she was very pretty, especially at this minute of happy, ecstatic animation. She looked at him without taking her eyes off him, smiling and holding her breath. He gave her a grateful look; but was still waiting and looking for someone. The old countess had not yet come out. And now steps were heard in the doorway. Steps so quick that they could not be his mother's steps.

But it was she in a new dress, unfamiliar to him, made while he was away. Everyone left him, and he ran to her. When they met, she fell on his chest sobbing. She could not lift her face and only pressed it to the cold braiding of his pelisse. Denisov, unnoticed by anyone, having entered the room, stood right there and, looking at them, rubbed his eyes.

— Vasily Denisov, your son's friend, — he said, introducing himself to the count, who was looking at him questioningly.

— You are very welcome. I know, I know, — said the count, kissing and embracing Denisov. — Nikolushka wrote... Natasha, Vera, here is Denisov.

The same happy, ecstatic faces turned to the shaggy figure of Denisov and surrounded him.

— My dear Denisov! — squealed Natasha, beside herself with rapture, sprang up to him, embraced and kissed him. Everyone was embarrassed by Natasha's action. Denisov also blushed, but smiled and, taking Natasha's hand, kissed it.

Denisov was taken to the room prepared for him, and the Rostovs all gathered in the sitting room around Nikolushka.

The old countess, not letting go of his hand, which she kissed every minute, sat beside him; the rest, crowding around them, caught his every movement, word, look, and did not take their ecstatically loving eyes off him. His brother and sisters argued and snatched places from one another closer to him, and fought over who should bring him his tea, his handkerchief, his pipe.

Rostov was very happy with the love they showed him; but the first minute of his meeting had been so blissful that his present happiness seemed insufficient to him, and he kept expecting something more, and more, and more.

The next morning the travelers slept off the journey till after nine.

In the preceding room lay sabers, satchels, sabretaches, opened portmanteaus, dirty boots. Two pairs of cleaned boots with spurs had just been placed against the wall. Servants brought washbasins, hot water for shaving, and brushed clothes. It smelled of tobacco and men.

— Hey, Grishka, my pipe! — cried Vaska Denisov's hoarse voice. — Rostov, get up!

Rostov, rubbing his sticky eyes, lifted his tangled head from the hot pillow.

— Why, is it late?

— Late, it's after nine, — answered Natasha's voice, and in the next room was heard the rustle of starched dresses, the whispering and laughter of girls' voices, and through the slightly opened door flashed something blue, ribbons, black hair, and merry faces. It was Natasha with Sonya and Petya, who had come to see whether he was up.

— Nikolinka, get up! — Natasha's voice was heard again at the door.

— Presently!

At this time Petya, in the first room, having seen and seized the sabers, and experiencing the rapture that boys experience at the sight of a martial elder brother, and forgetting that it is improper for sisters to see undressed men, opened the door.

— Is this your saber? — he shouted. The girls jumped back. Denisov, with frightened eyes, hid his shaggy legs in the blanket, looking around for help to his comrade. The door let Petya through and closed again. Laughter was heard behind the door.

— Nikolinka, come out in your dressing gown, — said Natasha's voice.

— Is this your saber? — asked Petya, — or is it yours? — he addressed the mustached, black Denisov with obsequious respect.

Rostov hastily put on his shoes, donned his dressing gown and went out. Natasha had put on one boot with a spur and was getting into the other. Sonya was twirling around and was just about to make her dress balloon out and curtsy when he came out. Both were in identical new blue dresses — fresh, rosy, merry. Sonya ran away, and Natasha, taking her brother's arm, led him into the sitting room, and they began to converse. They did not have time to ask each other and answer questions about thousands of trifles which could only interest them alone. Natasha laughed at every word he said and that she said, not because what they were saying was funny, but because she was happy and unable to restrain her joy, which expressed itself in laughter.

— Oh, how nice, capital! — she kept saying to everything. Rostov felt how, under the influence of the warm rays of love, for the first time in a year and a half, that childlike smile was blossoming in his soul and on his face which he had not once smiled since he left home.

— No, listen, — she said, — are you quite a man now? I am terribly glad that you are my brother. — She touched his mustache. — I want to know what you men are like. Are you like us? No?

— Why did Sonya run away? — asked Rostov.

— Yes. That is a whole story! How are you going to speak to Sonya? Thou or you?

— As it happens, — said Rostov.

— Call her you, please, I'll tell you later.

— But why?

— Well, I'll tell you now. You know that Sonya is my friend, such a friend that I'd burn my hand for her. Look here. — She pushed up her muslin sleeve and showed on her long, thin and delicate arm below the shoulder, much higher than the elbow (in the place that is covered even by ball dresses) a red mark.

— I burned this to prove my love for her. I simply heated a ruler in the fire and pressed it there.

Sitting in his former schoolroom, on a sofa with little cushions on the arms, and looking into these desperately animated eyes of Natasha's, Rostov re-entered that family, childish world of his, which had no meaning for anyone else but him, but which afforded him some of the best joys in life; and the burning of an arm with a ruler, to show love, seemed to him not useless: he understood and was not surprised at it.

— So what? is that all? — he asked.

— Well, we're so friendly, so friendly! Never mind that nonsense with the ruler; but we are friends forever. Whoever she falls in love with, she loves forever; but I don't understand that, I would forget at once.

— Well, what then?

— Yes, so she loves me and you. — Natasha suddenly blushed. — Well, you remember, before you left... So she says that you are to forget all that... She said: I shall love him always, but let him be free. Isn't it true that that is capital, noble! — Yes, yes? very noble? yes? — asked Natasha so seriously and excitedly that it was evident that what she was saying now, she had said before with tears. Rostov became thoughtful.

— I take back my word in nothing, — he said. — And besides, Sonya is such a charmer that what fool would refuse his own happiness?

— No, no, — cried Natasha. — We have already talked about that with her. We knew you would say that. But that won't do, because, you see, if you speak like that — if you consider yourself bound by your word, then it makes it seem as if she said it on purpose. It makes it seem that you're marrying her by force after all, and it turns out not right at all.

Rostov saw that all this had been well thought out by them. Sonya had struck him yesterday by her beauty. Today, catching a glimpse of her, she seemed to him even prettier. She was a charming sixteen-year-old girl, obviously passionately in love with him (of this he did not doubt for a minute). Why shouldn't he love her now, and even marry her, thought Rostov, but... there were so many other joys and occupations now! "Yes, they have thought it out beautifully," he thought, "one must remain free."

— Well, very good, — he said, — we'll talk later. Oh, how glad I am to see you! — he added.

— Well, and what about you, haven't you betrayed Boris? — asked her brother.

— What nonsense! — Natasha cried out laughing. — I don't think about him or anybody, and don't want to.

— Is that so! Then what are you doing?

— I? — Natasha repeated, and a happy smile lit up her face. — Have you seen Duport?

— No.

— Haven't you seen the famous Duport, the dancer? Well then you won't understand. This is what I am. — Natasha took hold of her skirt, rounding her arms as they do in dancing, ran back a few steps, turned, made an entrechat, beat her little feet together, and, standing on the very tips of her toes, walked a few steps.

— I am standing, aren't I? see, — she said; but she could not keep on her tiptoes. — So that's what I am! I'll never marry anyone, but will become a dancer. Only don't tell anyone.

Rostov burst out laughing so loudly and merrily that Denisov, in his room, felt envious, and Natasha could not help joining in his laughter. — No, but is it good? — she kept saying.

— Good. So you don't want to marry Boris anymore?

Natasha flared up.

— I don't want to marry anyone. I shall tell him the exact same thing when I see him.

— Is that so! — said Rostov.

— Well, yes, it's all nonsense, — Natasha chattered on.

— And is Denisov nice? — she asked.

— Nice.

— Well, good-bye, go and dress. Is he terrible, Denisov?

— Why terrible? — asked Nicolas. — No, Vaska is a fine fellow.

— You call him Vaska?... — strange. And, is he very handsome?

— Very handsome.

— Well, come quickly to drink tea. All together.

And Natasha rose on her tiptoes and walked out of the room as dancers do, but smiling as only happy fifteen-year-old girls smile. Meeting Sonya in the drawing room, Rostov blushed. He did not know how to behave with her. Yesterday they had kissed in the first minute of the joy of meeting, but today they felt that they could not do it; he felt that everyone, both his mother and his sisters, were looking at him questioningly and expecting to see how he would behave with her. He kissed her hand and called her you — Sonya. But their eyes, meeting, said "thou" to each other and tenderly kissed. Her look asked him to forgive her for having dared, through Natasha's embassy, to remind him of his promise and thanked him for his love. His look thanked her for the offer of freedom and said that one way or another, he would never cease to love her, because it was impossible not to love her.

— How strange it is, however, — said Vera, having chosen a general moment of silence, — that Sonya and Nikolinka now meet on 'you' and like strangers. — Vera's remark was just, as were all her remarks; but, as with the greater part of her remarks, everyone felt awkward, and not only Sonya, Nikolai, and Natasha, but also the old countess, who was afraid of her son's love for Sonya which might deprive him of a brilliant match, also blushed like a young girl. Denisov, to Rostov's surprise, appeared in the drawing room in a new uniform, pomaded and perfumed, looking as much a dandy as he did in battles, and as amiable with the ladies and gentlemen as Rostov had by no means expected to see him.