First Epilogue: 1813-20 - Chapter VIII

by Leo Tolstoy

　　One matter connected with his management sometimes worried Nicholas,and that was his quick temper together with his old hussar habit ofmaking free use of his fists. At first he saw nothing reprehensible inthis, but in the second year of his marriage his view of that formof punishment suddenly changed.

　　Once in summer he had sent for the village elder from Bogucharovo, aman who had succeeded to the post when Dron died and who was accusedof dishonesty and various irregularities. Nicholas went out into theporch to question him, and immediately after the elder had given a fewreplies the sound of cries and blows were heard. On returning to lunchNicholas went up to his wife, who sat with her head bent low overher embroidery frame, and as usual began to tell her what he hadbeen doing that morning. Among other things he spoke of theBogucharovo elder. Countess Mary turned red and then pale, butcontinued to sit with head bowed and lips compressed and gave herhusband no reply.

　　"Such an insolent scoundrel!" he cried, growing hot again at themere recollection of him. "If he had told me he was drunk and didnot see... But what is the matter with you, Mary?" he suddenly asked.

　　Countess Mary raised her head and tried to speak, but hastily lookeddown again and her lips puckered.

　　"Why, whatever is the matter, my dearest?"

　　The looks of the plain Countess Mary always improved when she was intears. She never cried from pain or vexation, but always from sorrowor pity, and when she wept her radiant eyes acquired an irresistiblecharm.

　　The moment Nicholas took her hand she could no longer restrainherself and began to cry.

　　"Nicholas, I saw it... he was to blame, but why do you... Nicholas!"and she covered her face with her hands.

　　Nicholas said nothing. He flushed crimson, left her side, andpaced up and down the room. He understood what she was weepingabout, but could not in his heart at once agree with her that whathe had regarded from childhood as quite an everyday event was wrong."Is it just sentimentality, old wives' tales, or is she right?" heasked himself. Before he had solved that point he glanced again at herface filled with love and pain, and he suddenly realized that shewas right and that he had long been sinning against himself.

　　"Mary," he said softly, going up to her, "it will never happenagain; I give you my word. Never," he repeated in a trembling voicelike a boy asking for forgiveness.

　　The tears flowed faster still from the countess' eyes. She tookhis hand and kissed it.

　　"Nicholas, when when did you break your cameo?" she asked tochange the subject, looking at his finger on which he wore a ring witha cameo of Laocoon's head.

　　"Today- it was the same affair. Oh, Mary, don't remind me of it!"and again he flushed. "I give you my word of honor it shan't occuragain, and let this always be a reminder to me," and he pointed to thebroken ring.

　　After that, when in discussions with his village elders orstewards the blood rushed to his face and his fists began to clench,Nicholas would turn the broken ring on his finger and would drop hiseyes before the man who was making him angry. But he did forgethimself once or twice within a twelvemonth, and then he would go andconfess to his wife, and would again promise that this should reallybe the very last time.

　　"Mary, you must despise me!" he would say. "I deserve it."

　　"You should go, go away at once, if you don't feel strong enoughto control yourself," she would reply sadly, trying to comfort herhusband.

　　Among the gentry of the province Nicholas was respected but notliked. He did not concern himself with the interests of his own class,and consequently some thought him proud and others thought him stupid.The whole summer, from spring sowing to harvest, he was busy withthe work on his farm. In autumn he gave himself up to hunting with thesame business like seriousness- leaving home for a month, or even two,with his hunt. In winter he visited his other villages or spent histime reading. The books he read were chiefly historical, and onthese he spent a certain sum every year. He was collecting, as hesaid, a serious library, and he made it a rule to read through all thebooks he bought. He would sit in his study with a grave air,reading- a task he first imposed upon himself as a duty, but whichafterwards became a habit affording him a special kind of pleasure anda consciousness of being occupied with serious matters. In winter,except for business excursions, he spent most of his time at homemaking himself one with his family and entering into all the detailsof his children's relations with their mother. The harmony between himand his wife grew closer and closer and he daily discovered freshspiritual treasures in her.

　　From the time of his marriage Sonya had lived in his house. Beforethat, Nicholas had told his wife all that had passed between himselfand Sonya, blaming himself and commending her. He had asked PrincessMary to be gentle and kind to his cousin. She thoroughly realizedthe wrong he had done Sonya, felt herself to blame toward her, andimagined that her wealth had influenced Nicholas' choice. She couldnot find fault with Sonya in any way and tried to be fond of her,but often felt ill-will toward her which she could not overcome.

　　Once she had a talk with her friend Natasha about Sonya and abouther own injustice toward her.

　　"You know," said Natasha, "you have read the Gospels a great deal-there is a passage in them that just fits Sonya."

　　"What?" asked Countess Mary, surprised.

　　"'To him that hath shall be given, and from him that hath notshall be taken away.' You remember? She is one that hath not; why, Idon't know. Perhaps she lacks egotism, I don't know, but from her istaken away, and everything has been taken away. Sometimes I amdreadfully sorry for her. Formerly I very much wanted Nicholas tomarry her, but I always had a sort of presentiment that it would notcome off. She is a sterile flower, you know- like some strawberryblossoms. Sometimes I am sorry for her, and sometimes I think shedoesn't feel it as you or I would."

　　Though Countess Mary told Natasha that those words in the Gospelmust be understood differently, yet looking at Sonya she agreed withNatasha's explanation. It really seemed that Sonya did not feel herposition trying, and had grown quite reconciled to her lot as asterile flower. She seemed to be fond not so much of individuals as ofthe family as a whole. Like a cat, she had attached herself not to thepeople but to the home. She waited on the old countess, petted andspoiled the children, was always ready to render the small servicesfor which she had a gift, and all this was unconsciously accepted fromher with insufficient gratitude.

　　The country seat at Bald Hills had been rebuilt, though not on thesame scale as under the old prince.

　　The buildings, begun under straitened circumstances, were morethan simple. The immense house on the old stone foundations was ofwood, plastered only inside. It had bare deal floors and was furnishedwith very simple hard sofas, armchairs, tables, and chairs made bytheir own serf carpenters out of their own birchwood. The house wasspacious and had rooms for the house serfs and apartments forvisitors. Whole families of the Rostovs' and Bolkonskis' relationssometimes came to Bald Hills with sixteen horses and dozens ofservants and stayed for months. Besides that, four times a year, onthe name days and birthdays of the hosts, as many as a hundredvisitors would gather there for a day or two. The rest of the yearlife pursued its unbroken routine with its ordinary occupations, andits breakfasts, lunches, dinners, and suppers, provided out of theproduce of the estate.