战争与和平(上)-第172章

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came　in；　his　back　still　covered　with　mud；　and　lay　on　the　sofa；　cleaning　himself　with　his　tongue　and　his　teeth。　There　was　a　corridor　leading　from　the　study；　and　in　it　they　could　see　a　screen　with　ragged　curtains。　Behind　the　screen　they　heard　feminine　laughter　and　whispering。　Natasha；　Nikolay；　and　Petya　took　off　their　wraps　and　sat　down　on　the　sofa。　Petya　leaned　on　his　arm　and　fell　asleep　at　once；　Natasha　and　Nikolay　sat　without　speaking。　Their　faces　were　burning；　they　were　very　hungry　and　very　cheerful。　They　looked　at　one　another—now　that　the　hunt　was　over　and　they　were　indoors；　Nikolay　did　not　feel　called　upon　to　show　his　masculine　superiority　over　his　sister。　Natasha　winked　at　her　brother；　and　they　could　neither　of　them　restrain　themselves　long；　and　broke　into　a　ringing　laugh　before　they　had　time　to　invent　a　pretext　for　their　mirth。
After　a　brief　interval；　the　uncle　came　in　wearing　a　Cossack　coat；　blue　breeches；　and　little　top…boots。　And　this　very　costume；　at　which　Natasha　had　looked　with　surprise　and　amusement　when　the　uncle　wore　it　at　Otradnoe；　seemed　to　her　now　the　right　costume　here；　and　in　no　way　inferior　to　frock　coats　or　ordinary　jackets。　The　uncle；　too；　was　in　good　spirits；　far　from　feeling　mortified　at　the　laughter　of　the　brother　and　sister　（he　was　incapable　of　imagining　that　they　could　be　laughing　at　his　mode　of　life）；　he　joined　in　their　causeless　mirth　himself。
“Well；　this　young　countess　here—forward；　quick　march！—I　have　never　seen　her　like！”　he　said；　giving　a　long　pipe　to　Rostov；　while　with　a　practised　motion　of　three　fingers　he　filled　another—a　short　broken　one—for　himself。
“She’s　been　in　the　saddle　all　day—something　for　a　man　to　boast　of—and　she’s　just　as　fresh　as　if　nothing　had　happened！”
Soon　the　door　was　opened　obviously；　from　the　sound；　by　a　barefoot　servant…girl；　and　a　stout；　red…cheeked；　handsome　woman　of　about　forty；　with　a　double　chin　and　full　red　lips；　walked　in；　with　a　big　tray　in　her　hands。　With　hospitable　dignity　and　cordiality　in　her　eyes　and　in　every　gesture；　she　looked　round　at　the　guests；　and　with　a　genial　smile　bowed　to　them　respectfully。
In　spite　of　her　exceptional　stoutness；　which　made　her　hold　her　head　flung　back；　while　her　bosom　and　all　her　portly　person　was　thrust　forward；　this　woman　（the　uncle’s　housekeeper）　stepped　with　extreme　lightness。　She　went　to　the　table；　put　the　tray　down；　and　deftly　with　her　plump；　white　hands　set　the　bottles　and　dishes　on　the　table。　When　she　had　finished　this　task　she　went　away；　standing　for　a　moment　in　the　doorway　with　a　smile　on　her　face。　“Here　I　am—I　am　she！　Now　do　you　understand　the　uncle？”　her　appearance　had　said　to　Rostov。　Who　could　fail　to　understand？　Not　Nikolay　only；　but　even　Natasha　understood　the　uncle　now　and　the　significance　of　his　knitted　brows；　and　the　happy；　complacent　smile；　which　puckered　his　lips　as　Anisya　Fyodorovna　came　in。　On　the　tray　there　were　liqueurs；　herb…brandy；　mushrooms；　biscuits　of　rye　flour　made　with　buttermilk；　honey　in　the　comb；　foaming　mead　made　from　honey；　apples；　nuts　raw　and　nuts　baked；　and　nuts　preserved　in　honey。　Then　Anisya　Fyodorovna　brought　in　preserves　made　with　honey　and　with　sugar；　and　ham　and　a　chicken　that　had　just　been　roasted。
All　these　delicacies　were　of　Anisya　Fyodorovna’s　preparing；　cooking　or　preserving。　All　seemed　to　smell　and　taste；　as　it　were；　of　Anisya　Fyodorovna。　All　seemed　to　recall　her　buxomness；　cleanliness；　whiteness；　and　cordial　smile。
“A　little　of　this；　please；　little　countess；”　she　kept　saying；　as　she　handed　Natasha　first　one　thing；　then　another。　Natasha　ate　of　everything；　and　it　seemed　to　her　that　such　buttermilk　biscuits；　such　delicious　preserves；　such　nuts　in　honey；　such　a　chicken；　she　had　never　seen　nor　tasted　anywhere。　Anisya　Fyodorovna　withdrew。　Rostov　and　the　uncle；　as　they　sipped　cherry　brandy　after　supper；　talked　of　hunts　past　and　to　come；　of　Rugay　and　Ilagin’s　dogs。　Natasha　sat　upright　on　the　sofa；　listening　with　sparkling　eyes。　She　tried　several　times　to　waken　Petya；　and　make　him　eat　something；　but　he　made　incoherent　replies；　evidently　in　his　sleep。　Natasha　felt　so　gay；　so　well　content　in　these　new　surroundings；　that　her　only　fear　was　that　the　trap　would　come　too　soon　for　her。　After　a　silence　had　chanced　to　fall　upon　them；　as　almost　always　happens　when　any　one　receives　friends　for　the　first　time　in　his　own　house；　the　uncle　said；　in　response　to　the　thought　in　his　guests’　minds：
“Yes；　so　you　see　how　I　am　finishing　my　days。…　One　dies—forward；　quick　march！—nothing　is　left。　So　why　sin！”
The　uncle’s　face　was　full　of　significance　and　even　beauty　as　he　said　this。　Rostov　could　not　help　recalling　as　he　spoke　all　the　good　things　he　had　heard　said　by　his　father　and　the　neighbours　about　him。　Through　the　whole　district　the　uncle　had　the　reputation　of　being　a　most　generous　and　disinterested　eccentric。　He　was　asked　to　arbitrate　in　family　quarrels；　he　was　chosen　executor；　secrets　were　entrusted　to　him；　he　was　elected　a　justice；　and　asked　to　fill　other　similar　posts；　but　he　had　always　persisted　in　refusing　all　public　appointments；　spending　the　autumn　and　spring　in　the　fields　on　his　bay　horse；　the　winter　sitting　at　home；　and　the　summer　lying　in　his　overgrown　garden。
“Why　don’t　you　enter　the　service；　uncle？”
“I　have　been　in　the　service；　but　I　flung　it　up。　I’m　not　fit　for　it。　I　can’t　make　anything　of　it。　That’s　your　affair。　I　haven’t　the　wit　for　it。　The　chase；　now；　is　a　very　different　matter；　there　it’s　all　forward　and　quick　march！　Open　the　door　there！”　he　shouted。　“Why　have　you　shut　it？”　A　door　at　the　end　of　the　corridor　（which　word　the　uncle　always　pronounced　collidor；　like　a　peasant）　led　to　the　huntsmen’s　room；　as　the　sitting…room　for　the　huntsmen　was　called。　There　was　a　rapid　patter　of　bare　feet；　and　an　unseen　hand　opened　the　door　into　the　huntsmen’s　room。　They　could　then　hear　distinctly　from　the　corridor　the　sounds　of　the　balalaika；　unmistakably　played　by　a　master　hand。　Natasha　had　been　for　some　time　listening；　and　now　she　went　out　into　the　corridor　to　hear　the　music　more　clearly。
“That’s　Mitka；　my　coachman　…　I　bought　him　a　good　balalaika；　I’m　fond　of　it；”　said　the　uncle。　It　was　his　custom　to　get　Mitka　to　play　the　balalaika　in　the　men’s　room　when　he　came　home　from　the　chase。　He　was　fond　of　hearing　that　instrument。
“How　well　he　plays！　It’s　really　very　nice；”　said　Nikolay；　with　a　certain　unconscious　superciliousness　in　his　tone；　as　though　he　were　ashamed　to　admit　he　liked　this　music。
“Very　nice？”　Natasha　said　reproachfully；　feeling　the　tone　in　which　her　brother　had　spoken。　“It’s　not　nice；　but　splendid；　really！”　Just　as　the　uncle’s　mushrooms　and　honey　and　liqueurs　had　seemed　to　her　the　most　delicious　in　the　world；　this　playing　struck　her　at　that　moment　as　the　very　acme　of　musical　expression。
“More；　more；　please；”　said　Natasha　in　the　doorway；　as　soon　as　the　balalaika　ceased。　Mitka　tuned　up　and　began　again　gallantly　twanging　away　at　“My　Lady；”　with　shakes　and　flourishes。　The　uncle　sat　listening　with　his　head　on　one　side；　and　a　slight　smile。　The　air　of　“My　Lady”　was　repeated　a　hundred　times　over。　Several　times　the　balalaika　was　tuned　up　and　the　same　notes　were　thrummed　again；　but　the　audience　did　not　weary　of　it；　and　still　longed　to　hear　it　again　and　again。　Anisya　Fyodorovna　came　in　and　stood　with　her　portly　person　leaning　against　the　doorpost。
“You　are　pleased　to　listen！”　she　said　to　Natasha；　with　a　smile　extra…ordinarily　like　the　uncle’s　smile。　“He　does　play　nicely；”　she　said。
“That　part　he　never　plays　right；”　the　uncle　said　suddenly　with　a　vigorous　gesture。　“It　ought　to　be　taken　more　at　a　run—forward；　quick　march！　…　to　be　played　lightly。”
“Why；　can　you　do　it？”　asked　Natasha。
The　uncle　smiled；　and　did　not　answer。
“Just　you　look；　Anisyushka；　whether　the　strings　are　all　right　on　the　guitar；　eh？　It’s　a　long　while　since　I　have　handled　it。　I　had　quite　given　it　up！”
Anisya　Fyodorovna　went　very　readily　with　her　light　step　to　do　her　master’s　bidding；　and　brought　him　his　guitar。　Without　looking　at　any　one　the　uncle　blew　the　dust　off　it；　tapped　on　the　case　with　his　bony　fingers；　tuned　it；　and　settled　himself　in　a　low　chair。　Arching　his　left　elbow　with　a　rather　theatrical　gesture；　he　held　the　guitar　above　the　finger…board；　and