War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy
t from him. She now felt bound to her husband not by the romantic emotions that had first attracted him to her, but by something different, something hard to define but as strong as the tie between her body and soul.
Fussing with her hair, dressing up and singing songs just to appeal to her husband would have seemed as weird as adorning herself to please herself. Adorning herself to please other people might have been quite nice - she wasn't sure - but she simply didn't have the time. The real reason why she didn't bother about singing, or grooming herself or picking her words carefully was that she simply didn't have the time for anything like that.
We all know that people are capable of absorbing themselves in one single subject, however trivial it may seem to be. We also know there is no subject so trivial that it won't go on infinitely expanding once people have become absorbed in it.
The subject that now absorbed Natasha so completely was her family: her husband, who had to be held on to very firmly to ensure he belonged exclusively to her and the family, and also the children she had to carry, give birth to, nurse and bring up.
And the more she absorbed herself in this subject, mind, body and soul, the more the subject expanded before her very eyes, and the skimpier and more inadequate her resources for coping with it seemed to be, so she ended up concentrating them totally on this one subject and still didn't manage to do all that seemed necessary.
Then as now much time was spent arguing about the rights of women, husband-and-wife relationships and freedom and rights within marriage (though these things were not called 'serious issues', as they now are), but Natasha had no interest in any such questions and no knowledge of them.
Questions like these, then as now, existed exclusively for people who see marriage only in terms of satisfaction given and received by the married couple, though this is only one principle of married life rather than its overall meaning, which lies in the family.
All the latest issues and debates, such as the problem of getting maximum pleasure out of eating your dinner, did not exist then and do not exist now for people who see dinner as a source of nourishment, and family life as the aim of marriage.
If the purpose of dinner is nourishment for the body, anybody who eats two dinners one after the other may get some extra pleasure, but this won't achieve the aim because the stomach cannot digest two dinners.
If the purpose of marriage is family life, anybody who fancies having several wives and several husbands may get a lot of pleasure out of it, but will have no chance of enjoying a family. If the purpose of dinner is nourishment and the purpose of marriage is family life there is only one solution: don't eat more than the stomach can manage and don't have more husbands or wives than you need for a family, which means one wife and one husband. Natasha had needed a husband. A husband was given to her. And her husband gave her a family. And far from sensing any need for another, better husband, she put all her spiritual energy into serving the husband and family that she had, and couldn't imagine - she had no interest in trying to imagine - how things might have worked out if it had all been different.
Natasha was no great lover of society in general, but this made her all the more appreciative when it came to the company of her relatives - Countess Marya, her brother, her mother and Sonya. She valued the company of these people she could run to straight from the nursery, still in her dressing-gown and with her hair all over the place, and delightedly show them a diaper stained yellow instead of green, and listen to their reassurances that the baby must be getting much better.
Natasha let herself go to such an extent that her clothes, her untidy hair, her thoughtless jibes and her jealousy - she was jealous of Sonya, the governess and all women, pretty or plain - were a constant source of humour amongst her friends. The general opinion was that Pierre was under her thumb, and this was true. From the earliest days of their marriage Natasha had laid down what she wanted. Pierre had been taken aback by the novel attitude adopted by his wife - that every minute of his life belonged to her and their home. He was surprised to discover what she wanted, but so flattered by it all that he gave in immediately.
Pierre was so much under the thumb that he didn't dare look at another woman let alone smile at one in conversation, didn't dare drop in at his club for a spot of dinner just to enjoy himself, didn't dare spend money on anything frivolous and didn't dare go away for long periods except on business, though his wife conceded that this included his reading and research. This was something she had no understanding of, but she did think it was very important. Pierre was compensated by having the complete run of the house and could do what he wanted with himself and all the family. In their home Natasha was happy to be a slave to her husband, and everybody in the house had to tiptoe about when the master was busy reading or writing in his study. Pierre had only to say the word and his slightest wish was fulfilled. He had only to say he wanted something and Natasha would jump to her feet and run off and get it.
The whole household was run on the basis of orders supposedly issued by the master, in other words Pierre's wishes as interpreted by Natasha. Their lifestyle and place of residence, their friends and contacts, Natasha's occupations, and the children's upbringing - everything came about in accordance with Pierre's expressed wishes, and, what is more, Natasha did her best to draw further conclusions from ideas of his expressed in conversation. She was very good at using her intuition to grasp the essence of what Pierre was after, and once she had guessed it she stuck to it, even to the extent of turning his own weapons against him if ever he felt like deviating.
In the unforgettably difficult days following the birth of their first, underweight baby, they had gone through three wet nurses one after another, and Natasha was sick with worry, when Pierre suddenly mentioned Rousseau's ideas about the unnaturalness and great harm of giving babies over to wet nurses, and said he completely agreed with them. When the next baby came along Natasha defied her own mother, the doctors and even her husband himself, all of whom thought that nursing your own baby was an outrageously dangerous practice; she got her own way, and from that day forth had nursed all the children herself.
It sometimes happened that irritation between husband and wife led to long arguments, but later on Pierre would often notice to his surprise and delight that his wife was implementing in deed as well as in word the very thing she had been arguing against. There it was, his own idea, stripped of all the inessentials that had been added to it in the heat of the argument.
After seven years of married life Pierre felt happy and secure in the knowledge that he wasn't a bad man, and he felt this because he could see himself reflected in his wife. In himself he could sense the good and bad all mixed up together, the one obscuring the other. But in his wife he could see a reflection of nothing but good; anything that fell short of that was discarded. And this reflection was not achieved by logical thought processes; it came from a different source, a mysterious realm of direct personal experience.
CHAPTER 11
Two months before this, when Pierre had already come to stay with the Rostovs, he received a letter from a certain Prince Fyodor, urging him to come to Petersburg to discuss a number of important questions that were exercising the Petersburg membership of a society which Pierre had served as one of its founding fathers.
Natasha was in the habit of reading all her husband's letters, and she read this one. Much as she hated the idea of him going away, she took the lead in persuading him to go. Anything to do with her husband's abstract, intellectual life she thought of as highly significant, though it was all beyond her, and she lived in constant fear of being an encumbrance to her husband in such matters. When Pierre gave her a timid and quizzical glance after reading the letter she responded by insisting that he go, as long as he told her exactly when he would be back. He was given four weeks' leave of absence.
He was now two weeks overdue and ever since his leave ran out Natasha had been in a constant state of alarm, despondency and irritability.
Retired General Denisov, already frustrated at the current state of public affairs, had arrived during that fortnight, and now he looked at Natasha in sad surprise - it was like looking at a badly painted portrait of someone near and dear. A sad look of bored indifference, one or two irrelevant remarks and a constant stream of nursery talk was all he saw and heard from the seductive creature of days gone by.
Natasha had spent the whole time looking miserable and irritable, especially when her mother, her brother, Sonya or Countess Marya tried to soothe her by making excuses for Pierre, and thinking up reasons for his delay in returning.
'It's nothing but childish nonsense,' Natasha would say. 'All these grand ideas that never come to anything.' And she would go on about 'all these stupid societies of his', referring to matters of the greatest importance, which she really believed in. And off she would go to the nursery to feed her only little boy, baby Petya.
No one could provide such soothing and sensible consolation as that little three-month-old creature when it lay at her breast, and she could feel its little mouth moving and its nose snuffling. That little creature would say to her, 'You're feeling angry and jealous, you'd like to get your own back, you're worried, but I'm here - and I am him. Look, I am him.' There was no answer to that. It was more than true.
Natasha had gone to her baby for comfort and fussed over him so often during those two restless weeks that she had overfed him and made him poorly. She was terrified at his illness, but it was just what she needed. She was so preoccupied with looking after him that her worries about her husband were easier to bear.
She was feeding the baby when Pierre's sledge came grinding up to the entrance, whereupon the nurse, knowing how to please her mistress, hurried in quietly with her face all aglow.
'Is that him?' asked Natasha in a quick whisper, afraid to move for fear of waking the baby, who was just dropping off.
'Yes, ma'am,' whispered the nurse.
The blood rushed to Natasha's face, and her feet moved instinctively, but she couldn't just leap up and run away. The baby opened his little eyes again, glanced at her as if to say, 'Oh, you're still here,' and gave another lazy smack of his lips.
Cautiously easing her breast away, Natasha cradled her little boy, handed him over to the nurse and then walked quickly off towards the door. But she stopped in the doorway as if she felt guilty for being so quick and happy to get rid of the baby, and she looked back. The nurse with her elbows raised, lifted the baby over the rail and into the cot.
'Yes, go along, ma'am, go along. Don't you worry. You go along,' whispered the nurse, smiling with the close familiarity that is bound to arise between nurse and mistress.
Natasha tripped down to the ante-room. Denisov was on his way out of the study into the hall with his pipe in his mouth, and for him it was like seeing Natasha again for the first time. Her face was transformed, flooded with a new radiance and joyful brightness.
'He's back!' she called across as she flew past, and Denisov felt delighted to hear that Pierre was back, even though he didn't like him very much. Running into the ante-room, Natasha caught sight of a tall figure in a fur-coat busy undoing his scarf.
'Yes, it's him. It's true. He's back,' she said to herself as she rushed at him, gave him a hug and pressed her head against his chest, before pulling back to look at her husband's ruddy, frosted face glowing with happiness. 'Yes, it's him. All happy and contented . . .'
Then suddenly she remembered all the suspense and torment she had gone through during the last two weeks. The glow of joy was wiped off her face, she scowled and a torrent of angry words and recrimination rained down on Pierre's head.
'Oh yes, it's all right for you. You've been having a good time, enjoying yourself . . . What about me? You might have thought about the children. Here I am nursing. My milk went wrong. Petya nearly died. And you've been off enjoying yourself. Enjoying yourself!'
Pierre knew it wasn't his fault; he couldn't have come any earlier. He knew this outburst on her part was unseemly, but it would be over in a couple of minutes. Most important of all, he knew that he himself was deliriously happy. He felt like smiling, but he wouldn't dare think of it. He put on a pathetic show of dismay and bowed his head to the storm.
'God's truth, I just couldn't . . . Anyway, how is Petya?'
'He is all right now. Come and see. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. If you could have seen what I'm like without you, what I've been through . . .'
'Are you well?'
'Come on. Come on,' she said, holding on to his hand. And off they went to their rooms. When Nikolay and his wife came to look for Pierre they found him in the nursery, dandling his baby son, who was now awake again, on the palm of his big right hand. There was a gleeful smile on the baby's broad face with its wide-open, toothless mouth. The storm had long blown over, and Natasha's face was flooded with brightness, happiness and sunshine as she gazed tenderly at her husband and son.
'How did your discussions with Prince Fyodor go?' Natasha was saying.
'Oh, splendidly.'
'Look, he can hold his head up,' said Natasha, pointing to the baby. 'Oh, what a scare he gave me . . . And did you see the princess? Is it true she's in love with that . . .'
'Yes, you can well imagine . . .'
At that moment Nikolay and his wife came in. Pierre kept hold of his son as he bent down, exchanged kisses and answered their various questions. But it was obvious that in spite of all the interesting things they had to talk about, Pierre's only real interest was in the baby, with his wobbly head in its little cap.
'What a sweetie!' said Countess Marya, looking at the baby and playing with him. 'That's one thing I don't understand about you, Nikolay,' she said, turning to her husband. 'How it is you don't feel the charm of these exquisite little creatures?'
'Well, I don't and I can't,' said Nikolay, looking coldly at the baby. 'Just a lump of flesh. Come on, Pierre.'
'The main thing is, he really is a very loving father,' said Countess Marya, apologizing for her husband, 'but only after they are a year or so old . . .'
'Oh, Pierre's a splendid nurse,' said Natasha. 'He says his hand is just right for a baby's bottom. Look.'
'Yes, but not this one,' Pierre cried with a laugh as he snatched up the baby and handed him back to his nurse.
CHAPTER 12
As in any family worthy of the name, several separate worlds coexisted within the one household at Bald Hills, and while each preserved its own individuality, they all made allowances for each other and they blended together into one harmonious whole. Every event that occurred in the house, happy or sad, was of equal importance to each of these little worlds, but each of them also had its own personal and quite independent reasons for applauding or regretting every event.
Thus Pierre's homecoming, a joyful and important event, was accepted as such in all circles.
The servants - infallible judges of their masters, because their judgements are based not on talk or emotion but on deeds and real life - were delighted to see him back because they knew that when Pierre was there the other count, their master, would stop doing his rounds and he would be in a much better mood, much nicer to them, and also because they knew they would all get expensive presents for the festive day.
The children and their governesses were pleased to see him back because there was no one like Pierre for bringing them into the mainstream of things in the house. He was the one person who could sit down at the clavichord and play the all-purpose ecossaise, the only piece he knew, though he said it was good for all dances, and he had probably brought presents for them.
Young Nikolay Bolkonsky, who was by now a slim, delicate but intelligent boy of fifteen, with curly light-brown hair and beautiful eyes, was delighted because his 'Uncle Pierre' was the object of his admiration and deep affection. No one had particularly encouraged Nikolay to be so fond of Pierre, and he didn't see him very often. Countess Marya, who had brought him up, had gone out of her way to make Nikolay love her husband as much as she did, and the boy did like his uncle, but his affection was tinged with contempt. But he worshipped Pierre. He didn't want to be a dashing hussar or a Knight of St George like his Uncle Nikolay, he wanted to be a learned, clever and kindly man like Pierre. In Pierre's presence his face glowed with pleasure, and he blushed and felt short of breath when Pierre spoke to him. He never missed a word that fell from Pierre's lips, and later on, with or without Dessalles, he would go over his every phrase and think about its meaning. Pierre's past life, his unhappy career before 1812 (a vague, romantic version of which he had compiled from the few words he had heard dropped), his adventures in Moscow and his period of imprisonment, Platon Karatayev (whom he had heard about from Pierre), his love for Natasha (which the boy shared in his own special way) and, above all, his friendship with the father Nikolay couldn't remember - all of this made Pierre a hero and a saint in his eyes.
From occasional references to his father and Natasha, Pierre's inability to talk about his father without becoming emotional and Natasha's cautious, tender and reverential tone whenever she spoke about him, the boy, who was just beginning to work out the meaning of love, had formed an impression that his father had loved Natasha, and bequeathed her to his friend on his deathbed. And as for the father himself, despite having no memories to go on the boy saw him as a godlike creation beyond all imagining, and every time he brought him to mind he did so with a sinking heart and bitter-sweet tears.
So he too was happy when Pierre came back.
All the house guests welcomed Pierre back as a man who could be counted on to bring people together and raise their spirits.
The adult members of the household, including his wife, were welcoming back a friendly figure who always made life run more smoothly and peacefully.
The old ladies were pleased at the thought of the presents he must have brought, but it meant more to them that Natasha would now be a lot livelier.
Pierre could sense the different attitudes coming from the several different worlds, and lost no time in satisfying everybod
Fussing with her hair, dressing up and singing songs just to appeal to her husband would have seemed as weird as adorning herself to please herself. Adorning herself to please other people might have been quite nice - she wasn't sure - but she simply didn't have the time. The real reason why she didn't bother about singing, or grooming herself or picking her words carefully was that she simply didn't have the time for anything like that.
We all know that people are capable of absorbing themselves in one single subject, however trivial it may seem to be. We also know there is no subject so trivial that it won't go on infinitely expanding once people have become absorbed in it.
The subject that now absorbed Natasha so completely was her family: her husband, who had to be held on to very firmly to ensure he belonged exclusively to her and the family, and also the children she had to carry, give birth to, nurse and bring up.
And the more she absorbed herself in this subject, mind, body and soul, the more the subject expanded before her very eyes, and the skimpier and more inadequate her resources for coping with it seemed to be, so she ended up concentrating them totally on this one subject and still didn't manage to do all that seemed necessary.
Then as now much time was spent arguing about the rights of women, husband-and-wife relationships and freedom and rights within marriage (though these things were not called 'serious issues', as they now are), but Natasha had no interest in any such questions and no knowledge of them.
Questions like these, then as now, existed exclusively for people who see marriage only in terms of satisfaction given and received by the married couple, though this is only one principle of married life rather than its overall meaning, which lies in the family.
All the latest issues and debates, such as the problem of getting maximum pleasure out of eating your dinner, did not exist then and do not exist now for people who see dinner as a source of nourishment, and family life as the aim of marriage.
If the purpose of dinner is nourishment for the body, anybody who eats two dinners one after the other may get some extra pleasure, but this won't achieve the aim because the stomach cannot digest two dinners.
If the purpose of marriage is family life, anybody who fancies having several wives and several husbands may get a lot of pleasure out of it, but will have no chance of enjoying a family. If the purpose of dinner is nourishment and the purpose of marriage is family life there is only one solution: don't eat more than the stomach can manage and don't have more husbands or wives than you need for a family, which means one wife and one husband. Natasha had needed a husband. A husband was given to her. And her husband gave her a family. And far from sensing any need for another, better husband, she put all her spiritual energy into serving the husband and family that she had, and couldn't imagine - she had no interest in trying to imagine - how things might have worked out if it had all been different.
Natasha was no great lover of society in general, but this made her all the more appreciative when it came to the company of her relatives - Countess Marya, her brother, her mother and Sonya. She valued the company of these people she could run to straight from the nursery, still in her dressing-gown and with her hair all over the place, and delightedly show them a diaper stained yellow instead of green, and listen to their reassurances that the baby must be getting much better.
Natasha let herself go to such an extent that her clothes, her untidy hair, her thoughtless jibes and her jealousy - she was jealous of Sonya, the governess and all women, pretty or plain - were a constant source of humour amongst her friends. The general opinion was that Pierre was under her thumb, and this was true. From the earliest days of their marriage Natasha had laid down what she wanted. Pierre had been taken aback by the novel attitude adopted by his wife - that every minute of his life belonged to her and their home. He was surprised to discover what she wanted, but so flattered by it all that he gave in immediately.
Pierre was so much under the thumb that he didn't dare look at another woman let alone smile at one in conversation, didn't dare drop in at his club for a spot of dinner just to enjoy himself, didn't dare spend money on anything frivolous and didn't dare go away for long periods except on business, though his wife conceded that this included his reading and research. This was something she had no understanding of, but she did think it was very important. Pierre was compensated by having the complete run of the house and could do what he wanted with himself and all the family. In their home Natasha was happy to be a slave to her husband, and everybody in the house had to tiptoe about when the master was busy reading or writing in his study. Pierre had only to say the word and his slightest wish was fulfilled. He had only to say he wanted something and Natasha would jump to her feet and run off and get it.
The whole household was run on the basis of orders supposedly issued by the master, in other words Pierre's wishes as interpreted by Natasha. Their lifestyle and place of residence, their friends and contacts, Natasha's occupations, and the children's upbringing - everything came about in accordance with Pierre's expressed wishes, and, what is more, Natasha did her best to draw further conclusions from ideas of his expressed in conversation. She was very good at using her intuition to grasp the essence of what Pierre was after, and once she had guessed it she stuck to it, even to the extent of turning his own weapons against him if ever he felt like deviating.
In the unforgettably difficult days following the birth of their first, underweight baby, they had gone through three wet nurses one after another, and Natasha was sick with worry, when Pierre suddenly mentioned Rousseau's ideas about the unnaturalness and great harm of giving babies over to wet nurses, and said he completely agreed with them. When the next baby came along Natasha defied her own mother, the doctors and even her husband himself, all of whom thought that nursing your own baby was an outrageously dangerous practice; she got her own way, and from that day forth had nursed all the children herself.
It sometimes happened that irritation between husband and wife led to long arguments, but later on Pierre would often notice to his surprise and delight that his wife was implementing in deed as well as in word the very thing she had been arguing against. There it was, his own idea, stripped of all the inessentials that had been added to it in the heat of the argument.
After seven years of married life Pierre felt happy and secure in the knowledge that he wasn't a bad man, and he felt this because he could see himself reflected in his wife. In himself he could sense the good and bad all mixed up together, the one obscuring the other. But in his wife he could see a reflection of nothing but good; anything that fell short of that was discarded. And this reflection was not achieved by logical thought processes; it came from a different source, a mysterious realm of direct personal experience.
CHAPTER 11
Two months before this, when Pierre had already come to stay with the Rostovs, he received a letter from a certain Prince Fyodor, urging him to come to Petersburg to discuss a number of important questions that were exercising the Petersburg membership of a society which Pierre had served as one of its founding fathers.
Natasha was in the habit of reading all her husband's letters, and she read this one. Much as she hated the idea of him going away, she took the lead in persuading him to go. Anything to do with her husband's abstract, intellectual life she thought of as highly significant, though it was all beyond her, and she lived in constant fear of being an encumbrance to her husband in such matters. When Pierre gave her a timid and quizzical glance after reading the letter she responded by insisting that he go, as long as he told her exactly when he would be back. He was given four weeks' leave of absence.
He was now two weeks overdue and ever since his leave ran out Natasha had been in a constant state of alarm, despondency and irritability.
Retired General Denisov, already frustrated at the current state of public affairs, had arrived during that fortnight, and now he looked at Natasha in sad surprise - it was like looking at a badly painted portrait of someone near and dear. A sad look of bored indifference, one or two irrelevant remarks and a constant stream of nursery talk was all he saw and heard from the seductive creature of days gone by.
Natasha had spent the whole time looking miserable and irritable, especially when her mother, her brother, Sonya or Countess Marya tried to soothe her by making excuses for Pierre, and thinking up reasons for his delay in returning.
'It's nothing but childish nonsense,' Natasha would say. 'All these grand ideas that never come to anything.' And she would go on about 'all these stupid societies of his', referring to matters of the greatest importance, which she really believed in. And off she would go to the nursery to feed her only little boy, baby Petya.
No one could provide such soothing and sensible consolation as that little three-month-old creature when it lay at her breast, and she could feel its little mouth moving and its nose snuffling. That little creature would say to her, 'You're feeling angry and jealous, you'd like to get your own back, you're worried, but I'm here - and I am him. Look, I am him.' There was no answer to that. It was more than true.
Natasha had gone to her baby for comfort and fussed over him so often during those two restless weeks that she had overfed him and made him poorly. She was terrified at his illness, but it was just what she needed. She was so preoccupied with looking after him that her worries about her husband were easier to bear.
She was feeding the baby when Pierre's sledge came grinding up to the entrance, whereupon the nurse, knowing how to please her mistress, hurried in quietly with her face all aglow.
'Is that him?' asked Natasha in a quick whisper, afraid to move for fear of waking the baby, who was just dropping off.
'Yes, ma'am,' whispered the nurse.
The blood rushed to Natasha's face, and her feet moved instinctively, but she couldn't just leap up and run away. The baby opened his little eyes again, glanced at her as if to say, 'Oh, you're still here,' and gave another lazy smack of his lips.
Cautiously easing her breast away, Natasha cradled her little boy, handed him over to the nurse and then walked quickly off towards the door. But she stopped in the doorway as if she felt guilty for being so quick and happy to get rid of the baby, and she looked back. The nurse with her elbows raised, lifted the baby over the rail and into the cot.
'Yes, go along, ma'am, go along. Don't you worry. You go along,' whispered the nurse, smiling with the close familiarity that is bound to arise between nurse and mistress.
Natasha tripped down to the ante-room. Denisov was on his way out of the study into the hall with his pipe in his mouth, and for him it was like seeing Natasha again for the first time. Her face was transformed, flooded with a new radiance and joyful brightness.
'He's back!' she called across as she flew past, and Denisov felt delighted to hear that Pierre was back, even though he didn't like him very much. Running into the ante-room, Natasha caught sight of a tall figure in a fur-coat busy undoing his scarf.
'Yes, it's him. It's true. He's back,' she said to herself as she rushed at him, gave him a hug and pressed her head against his chest, before pulling back to look at her husband's ruddy, frosted face glowing with happiness. 'Yes, it's him. All happy and contented . . .'
Then suddenly she remembered all the suspense and torment she had gone through during the last two weeks. The glow of joy was wiped off her face, she scowled and a torrent of angry words and recrimination rained down on Pierre's head.
'Oh yes, it's all right for you. You've been having a good time, enjoying yourself . . . What about me? You might have thought about the children. Here I am nursing. My milk went wrong. Petya nearly died. And you've been off enjoying yourself. Enjoying yourself!'
Pierre knew it wasn't his fault; he couldn't have come any earlier. He knew this outburst on her part was unseemly, but it would be over in a couple of minutes. Most important of all, he knew that he himself was deliriously happy. He felt like smiling, but he wouldn't dare think of it. He put on a pathetic show of dismay and bowed his head to the storm.
'God's truth, I just couldn't . . . Anyway, how is Petya?'
'He is all right now. Come and see. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. If you could have seen what I'm like without you, what I've been through . . .'
'Are you well?'
'Come on. Come on,' she said, holding on to his hand. And off they went to their rooms. When Nikolay and his wife came to look for Pierre they found him in the nursery, dandling his baby son, who was now awake again, on the palm of his big right hand. There was a gleeful smile on the baby's broad face with its wide-open, toothless mouth. The storm had long blown over, and Natasha's face was flooded with brightness, happiness and sunshine as she gazed tenderly at her husband and son.
'How did your discussions with Prince Fyodor go?' Natasha was saying.
'Oh, splendidly.'
'Look, he can hold his head up,' said Natasha, pointing to the baby. 'Oh, what a scare he gave me . . . And did you see the princess? Is it true she's in love with that . . .'
'Yes, you can well imagine . . .'
At that moment Nikolay and his wife came in. Pierre kept hold of his son as he bent down, exchanged kisses and answered their various questions. But it was obvious that in spite of all the interesting things they had to talk about, Pierre's only real interest was in the baby, with his wobbly head in its little cap.
'What a sweetie!' said Countess Marya, looking at the baby and playing with him. 'That's one thing I don't understand about you, Nikolay,' she said, turning to her husband. 'How it is you don't feel the charm of these exquisite little creatures?'
'Well, I don't and I can't,' said Nikolay, looking coldly at the baby. 'Just a lump of flesh. Come on, Pierre.'
'The main thing is, he really is a very loving father,' said Countess Marya, apologizing for her husband, 'but only after they are a year or so old . . .'
'Oh, Pierre's a splendid nurse,' said Natasha. 'He says his hand is just right for a baby's bottom. Look.'
'Yes, but not this one,' Pierre cried with a laugh as he snatched up the baby and handed him back to his nurse.
CHAPTER 12
As in any family worthy of the name, several separate worlds coexisted within the one household at Bald Hills, and while each preserved its own individuality, they all made allowances for each other and they blended together into one harmonious whole. Every event that occurred in the house, happy or sad, was of equal importance to each of these little worlds, but each of them also had its own personal and quite independent reasons for applauding or regretting every event.
Thus Pierre's homecoming, a joyful and important event, was accepted as such in all circles.
The servants - infallible judges of their masters, because their judgements are based not on talk or emotion but on deeds and real life - were delighted to see him back because they knew that when Pierre was there the other count, their master, would stop doing his rounds and he would be in a much better mood, much nicer to them, and also because they knew they would all get expensive presents for the festive day.
The children and their governesses were pleased to see him back because there was no one like Pierre for bringing them into the mainstream of things in the house. He was the one person who could sit down at the clavichord and play the all-purpose ecossaise, the only piece he knew, though he said it was good for all dances, and he had probably brought presents for them.
Young Nikolay Bolkonsky, who was by now a slim, delicate but intelligent boy of fifteen, with curly light-brown hair and beautiful eyes, was delighted because his 'Uncle Pierre' was the object of his admiration and deep affection. No one had particularly encouraged Nikolay to be so fond of Pierre, and he didn't see him very often. Countess Marya, who had brought him up, had gone out of her way to make Nikolay love her husband as much as she did, and the boy did like his uncle, but his affection was tinged with contempt. But he worshipped Pierre. He didn't want to be a dashing hussar or a Knight of St George like his Uncle Nikolay, he wanted to be a learned, clever and kindly man like Pierre. In Pierre's presence his face glowed with pleasure, and he blushed and felt short of breath when Pierre spoke to him. He never missed a word that fell from Pierre's lips, and later on, with or without Dessalles, he would go over his every phrase and think about its meaning. Pierre's past life, his unhappy career before 1812 (a vague, romantic version of which he had compiled from the few words he had heard dropped), his adventures in Moscow and his period of imprisonment, Platon Karatayev (whom he had heard about from Pierre), his love for Natasha (which the boy shared in his own special way) and, above all, his friendship with the father Nikolay couldn't remember - all of this made Pierre a hero and a saint in his eyes.
From occasional references to his father and Natasha, Pierre's inability to talk about his father without becoming emotional and Natasha's cautious, tender and reverential tone whenever she spoke about him, the boy, who was just beginning to work out the meaning of love, had formed an impression that his father had loved Natasha, and bequeathed her to his friend on his deathbed. And as for the father himself, despite having no memories to go on the boy saw him as a godlike creation beyond all imagining, and every time he brought him to mind he did so with a sinking heart and bitter-sweet tears.
So he too was happy when Pierre came back.
All the house guests welcomed Pierre back as a man who could be counted on to bring people together and raise their spirits.
The adult members of the household, including his wife, were welcoming back a friendly figure who always made life run more smoothly and peacefully.
The old ladies were pleased at the thought of the presents he must have brought, but it meant more to them that Natasha would now be a lot livelier.
Pierre could sense the different attitudes coming from the several different worlds, and lost no time in satisfying everybod