Book Three: 1805 - Chapter VI

by Leo Tolstoy

　　It was long since the Rostovs had news of Nicholas. Not tillmidwinter was the count at last handed a letter addressed in his son'shandwriting. On receiving it, he ran on tiptoe to his study in alarmand haste, trying to escape notice, closed the door, and began to readthe letter.

　　Anna Mikhaylovna, who always knew everything that passed in thehouse, on hearing of the arrival of the letter went softly into theroom and found the count with it in his hand, sobbing and laughingat the same time.

　　Anna Mikhaylovna, though her circumstances had improved, was stillliving with the Rostovs.

　　"My dear friend?" said she, in a tone of pathetic inquiry,prepared to sympathize in any way.

　　The count sobbed yet more.

　　"Nikolenka... a letter... wa... a... s... wounded... my darlingboy... the countess... promoted to be an officer... thank God... Howtell the little countess!"

　　Anna Mikhaylovna sat down beside him, with her own handkerchiefwiped the tears from his eyes and from the letter, then having driedher own eyes she comforted the count, and decided that at dinner andtill teatime she would prepare the countess, and after tea, with God'shelp, would inform her.

　　At dinner Anna Mikhaylovna talked the whole time about the warnews and about Nikolenka, twice asked when the last letter had beenreceived from him, though she knew that already, and remarked thatthey might very likely be getting a letter from him that day. Eachtime that these hints began to make the countess anxious and sheglanced uneasily at the count and at Anna Mikhaylovna, the latter veryadroitly turned the conversation to insignificant matters. Natasha,who, of the whole family, was the most gifted with a capacity tofeel any shades of intonation, look, and expression, pricked up herears from the beginning of the meal and was certain that there wassome secret between her father and Anna Mikhaylovna, that it hadsomething to do with her brother, and that Anna Mikhaylovna waspreparing them for it. Bold as she was, Natasha, who knew howsensitive her mother was to anything relating to Nikolenka, did notventure to ask any questions at dinner, but she was too excited to eatanything and kept wriggling about on her chair regardless of hergoverness' remarks. After dinner, she rushed head long after AnnaMikhaylovna and, dashing at her, flung herself on her neck as soonas she overtook her in the sitting room.

　　"Auntie, darling, do tell me what it is!"

　　"Nothing, my dear."

　　"No, dearest, sweet one, honey, I won't give up- I know you knowsomething."

　　Anna Mikhaylovna shook her head.

　　"You are a little slyboots," she said.

　　"A letter from Nikolenka! I'm sure of it!" exclaimed Natasha,reading confirmation in Anna Mikhaylovna's face.

　　"But for God's sake, be careful, you know how it may affect yourmamma."

　　"I will, I will, only tell me! You won't? Then I will go and tell atonce."

　　Anna Mikhaylovna, in a few words, told her the contents of theletter, on condition that she should tell no one.

　　"No, on my true word of honor," said Natasha,crossing herself, "Iwon't tell anyone!" and she ran off at once to Sonya.

　　"Nikolenka... wounded... a letter," she announced in gleefultriumph.

　　"Nicholas!" was all Sonya said, instantly turning white.

　　Natasha, seeing the impression the of her brother's wound producedon Sonya, felt for the first time the sorrowful side of the news.

　　She rushed to Sonya, hugged her, and began to cry.

　　"A little wound, but he has been made an officer; he is well now, hewrote himself," said she through her tears.

　　"There now! It's true that all you women are crybabies," remarkedPetya, pacing the room with large, resolute strides. "Now I'm veryglad, very glad indeed, that my brother has distinguished himselfso. You are all blubberers and understand nothing."

　　Natasha smiled through her tears.

　　"You haven't read the letter?" asked Sonya.

　　"No, but she said that it was all over and that he's now anofficer."

　　"Thank God!" said Sonya, crossing herself. "But perhaps she deceivedyou. Let us go to Mamma."

　　Petya paced the room in silence for a time.

　　"If I'd been in Nikolenka's place I would have killed even more ofthose Frenchmen," he said. "What nasty brutes they are! I'd havekilled so many that there'd have been a heap of them."

　　"Hold your tongue, Petya, what a goose you are!"

　　"I'm not a goose, but they are who cry about trifles," said Petya.

　　"Do you remember him?" Natasha suddenly asked, after a moment'ssilence.

　　Sonya smiled.

　　"Do I remember Nicholas?"

　　"No, Sonya, but do you remember so that you remember himperfectly, remember everything?" said Natasha, with an expressivegesture, evidently wishing to give her words a very definitemeaning. "I remember Nikolenka too, I remember him well," she said."But I don't remember Boris. I don't remember him a bit."

　　"What! You don't remember Boris?" asked Sonya in surprise.

　　"It's not that I don't remember- I know what he is like, but notas I remember Nikolenka. Him- I just shut my eyes and remember, butBoris... No!" (She shut her eyes.)"No! there's nothing at all."

　　"Oh, Natasha!" said Sonya, looking ecstatically and earnestly at herfriend as if she did not consider her worthy to hear what she meant tosay and as if she were saying it to someone else, with whom joking wasout of the question, "I am in love with your brother once for all and,whatever may happen to him or to me, shall never cease to love himas long as I live."

　　Natasha looked at Sonya with wondering and inquisitive eyes, andsaid nothing. She felt that Sonya was speaking the truth, that therewas such love as Sonya was speaking of. But Natasha had not yet feltanything like it. She believed it could be, but did not understand it.

　　"Shall you write to him?" she asked.

　　Sonya became thoughtful. The question of how to write to Nicholas,and whether she ought to write, tormented her. Now that he was alreadyan officer and a wounded hero, would it be right to remind him ofherself and, as it might seem, of the obligations to her he hadtaken on himself?

　　"I don't know. I think if he writes, I will write too," she said,blushing.

　　"And you won't feel ashamed to write to him?"

　　Sonya smiled.

　　"No."

　　"And I should be ashamed to write to Boris. I'm not going to."

　　"Why should you be ashamed?"

　　"Well, I don't know. It's awkward and would make me ashamed."

　　"And I know why she'd be ashamed," said Petya, offended by Natasha'sprevious remark. "It's because she was in love with that fat one inspectacles" (that was how Petya described his namesake, the newCount Bezukhov) "and now she's in love with that singer" (he meantNatasha's Italian singing master), "that's why she's ashamed!"

　　"Petya, you're a stupid!" said Natasha.

　　"Not more stupid than you, madam," said the nine-year-old Petya,with the air of an old brigadier.

　　The countess had been prepared by Anna Mikhaylovna's hints atdinner. On retiring to her own room, she sat in an armchair, hereyes fixed on a miniature portrait of her son on the lid of asnuffbox, while the tears kept coming into her eyes. Anna Mikhaylovna,with the letter, came on tiptoe to the countess' door and paused.

　　"Don't come in," she said to the old count who was following her."Come later." And she went in, closing the door behind her.

　　The count put his ear to the keyhole and listened.

　　At first he heard the sound of indifferent voices, then AnnaMikhaylovna's voice alone in a long speech, then a cry, thensilence, then both voices together with glad intonations, and thenfootsteps. Anna Mikhaylovna opened the door. Her face wore the proudexpression of a surgeon who has just performed a difficult operationand admits the public to appreciate his skill.

　　"It is done!" she said to the count, pointing triumphantly to thecountess, who sat holding in one hand the snuffbox with its portraitand in the other the letter, and pressing them alternately to herlips.

　　When she saw the count, she stretched out her arms to him,embraced his bald head, over which she again looked at the letterand the portrait, and in order to press them again to her lips, sheslightly pushed away the bald head. Vera, Natasha, Sonya, and Petyanow entered the room, and the reading of the letter began. After abrief description of the campaign and the two battles in which hehad taken part, and his promotion, Nicholas said that he kissed hisfather's and mother's hands asking for their blessing, and that hekissed Vera, Natasha, and Petya. Besides that, he sent greetings toMonsieur Schelling, Madame Schoss, and his old nurse, and asked themto kiss for him "dear Sonya, whom he loved and thought of just thesame as ever." When she heard this Sonya blushed so that tears cameinto her eyes and, unable to bear the looks turned upon her, ranaway into the dancing hall, whirled round it at full speed with herdress puffed out like a balloon, and, flushed and smiling, plumpeddown on the floor. The countess was crying.

　　"Why are you crying, Mamma?" asked Vera. "From all he says oneshould be glad and not cry."

　　This was quite true, but the count, the countess, and Natasha lookedat her reproachfully. "And who is it she takes after?" thought thecountess.

　　Nicholas' letter was read over hundreds of times, and those who wereconsidered worthy to hear it had to come to the countess, for shedid not let it out of her hands. The tutors came, and the nurses,and Dmitri, and several acquaintances, and the countess reread theletter each time with fresh pleasure and each time discovered in itfresh proofs of Nikolenka's virtues. How strange, how extraordinary,how joyful it seemed, that her son, the scarcely perceptible motion ofwhose tiny limbs she had felt twenty years ago within her, that sonabout whom she used to have quarrels with the too indulgent count,that son who had first learned to say "pear" and then "granny," thatthis son should now be away in a foreign land amid strangesurroundings, a manly warrior doing some kind of man's work of hisown, without help or guidance. The universal experience of ages,showing that children do grow imperceptibly from the cradle tomanhood, did not exist for the countess. Her son's growth towardmanhood, at each of its stages, had seemed as extraordinary to heras if there had never existed the millions of human beings who grew upin the same way. As twenty years before, it seemed impossible that thelittle creature who lived somewhere under her heart would ever cry,suck her breast, and begin to speak, so now she could not believe thatthat little creature could be this strong, brave man, this model sonand officer that, judging by this letter, he now was.

　　"What a style! How charmingly he describes!" said she, reading thedescriptive part of the letter. "And what a soul! Not a word abouthimself.... Not a word! About some Denisov or other, though hehimself, I dare say, is braver than any of them. He says nothing abouthis sufferings. What a heart! How like him it is! And how he hasremembered everybody! Not forgetting anyone. I always said when he wasonly so high- I always said...."

　　For more than a week preparations were being made, rough drafts ofletters to Nicholas from all the household were written and copiedout, while under the supervision of the countess and the solicitude ofthe count, money and all things necessary for the uniform andequipment of the newly commissioned officer were collected. AnnaMikhaylovna, practical woman that she was, had even managed by favorwith army authorities to secure advantageous means of communicationfor herself and her son. She had opportunities of sending herletters to the Grand Duke Constantine Pavlovich, who commanded theGuards. The Rostovs supposed that The Russian Guards, Abroad, wasquite a definite address, and that if a letter reached the GrandDuke in command of the Guards there was no reason why it should notreach the Pavlograd regiment, which was presumably somewhere in thesame neighborhood. And so it was decided to send the letters and moneyby the Grand Duke's courier to Boris and Boris was to forward themto Nicholas. The letters were from the old count, the countess, Petya,Vera, Natasha, and Sonya, and finally there were six thousand rublesfor his outfit and various other things the old count sent to his son.