战争与和平(上)-第99章

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“Vassily　Denisov；　your　son’s　friend；”　he　said；　introducing　himself　to　the　count；　who　looked　inquiringly　at　him。
“Very　welcome。　I　know　you；　I　know　you；”　said　the　count；　kissing　and　embracing　Denisov。　“Nikolenka　wrote　to　us　…　Natasha；　Vera；　here　he　is；　Denisov。”
The　same　happy；　ecstatic　faces　turned　to　the　tousled　figure　of　Denisov　and　surrounded　him。
“Darling　Denisov；”　squealed　Natasha；　and；　beside　herself　with　delight　she　darted　up　to　him；　hugging　and　kissing　him。　Every　one　was　disconcerted　by　Natasha’s　behaviour。　Denisov　too　reddened。　but　he　smiled；　took　Natasha’s　hand　and　kissed　it。
Denisov　was　conducted　to　the　room　assigned　him；　while　the　Rostovs　all　gathered　about　Nikolenka　in　the　divan…room。
The　old　countess　sat　beside　him；　keeping　tight　hold　of　his　hand；　which　she　was　every　minute　kissing。　The　others　thronged　round　them；　gloating　over　every　movement；　every　glance；　every　word　he　uttered；　and　never　taking　their　enthusiastic　and　loving　eyes　off　him。　His　brother　and　sisters　quarrelled　and　snatched　from　one　another　the　place　nearest　him　and　disputed　over　which　was　to　bring　him　tea；　a　handkerchief；　a　pipe。
Rostov　was　very　happy　in　the　love　they　showed　him。　But　the　first　minute　of　meeting　them　had　been　so　blissful　that　his　happiness　now　seemed　a　little　thing；　and　he　kept　expecting　something　more　and　more　and　more。
Next　morning　after　his　journey　he　slept　on　till　ten　o’clock。
The　adjoining　room　was　littered　with　swords；　bags；　sabretaches；　open　trunks；　and　dirty　boots。　Two　pairs　of　cleaned　boots　with　spurs　had　just　been　stood　against　the　wall。　The　servants　brought　in　wash…hand　basins；　hot　water　for　shaving；　and　their　clothes　well　brushed。　The　room　was　full　of　a　masculine　odour　and　reeked　of　tobacco。
“Hi；　Grishka；　a　pipe！”　shouted　the　husky　voice　of　Vaska　Denisov。　“Rostov；　get　up！”
Rostov；　rubbing　his　eyelids　that　seemed　glued　together；　lifted　his　tousled　head　from　the　warm　pillow。
“Why；　is　it　late？”
“It　is　late；　nearly　ten；”　answered　Natasha’s　voice；　and　in　the　next　room　they　heard　the　rustle　of　starched　skirts　and　girlish　laughter。　The　door　was　opened　a　crack；　and　there　was　a　glimpse　of　something　blue；　of　ribbons；　black　hair　and　merry　faces。　Natasha　with　Sonya　and　Petya　had　come　to　see　if　he　were　not　getting　up。
“Nikolenka；　get　up！”　Natasha’s　voice　was　heard　again　at　the　door。
“At　once！”　Meanwhile　in　the　outer　room　Petya　had　caught　sight　of　the　swords　and　seized　upon　them　with　the　rapture　small　boys　feel　at　the　sight　of　a　soldier　brother；　and　regardless　of　its　not　being　the　proper　thing　for　his　sisters　to　see　the　young　men　undressed；　he　opened　the　bedroom　door。
“Is　this　your　sword？”　he　shouted。
The　girls　skipped　away。　Denisov　hid　his　hairy　legs　under　the　bed…clothes；　looking　with　a　scared　face　to　his　comrade　for　assistance。　The　door　admitted　Petya　and　closed　after　him。　A　giggle　was　heard　from　outside。
“Nikolenka；　come　out　in　your　dressing…gown；”　cried　Natasha’s　voice。
“Is　this　your　sword？”　asked　Petya；　“or　is　it　yours？”　he　turned　with　deferential　respect　to　the　swarthy；　whiskered　Denisov。
Rostov　made　haste　to　get　on　his　shoes　and　stockings；　put　on　his　dressing…gown　and　went　out。　Natasha　had　put　on　one　spurred　boot　and　was　just　getting　into　the　other。　Sonya　was　“making　cheeses；”　and　had　just　whirled　her　skirt　into　a　balloon　and　was　ducking　down；　when　he　came　in。　They　were　dressed　alike　in　new　blue　frocks；　both　fresh；　rosy；　and　good…humoured。　Sonya　ran　away；　but　Natasha；　taking　her　brother’s　arm；　led　him　into　the　divan…room；　and　a　conversation　began　between　them。　They　had　not　time　to　ask　and　answer　all　the　questions　about　the　thousand　trifling　matters　which　could　only　be　of　interest　to　them。　Natasha　laughed　at　every　word　he　said　and　at　every　word　she　said；　not　because　what　they　said　was　amusing；　but　because　she　was　in　high　spirits　and　unable　to　contain　her　joy；　which　brimmed　over　in　laughter。
“Ah；　isn’t　it　nice；　isn’t　it　splendid！”　she　kept　saying　every　moment。　Under　the　influence　of　the　warm　sunshine　of　love；　Rostov　felt　that　for　the　first　time　for　a　year　and　a　half　his　soul　and　his　face　were　expanding　in　that　childish　smile；　he　had　not　once　smiled　since　he　left　home。
“No；　I　say；”　she　said；　“you’re　quite　a　man　now；　eh？　I’m　awfully　glad　you’re　my　brother。”　She　touched　his　moustache。　“I　do　want　to　know　what　sort　of　creatures　you　men　are。　Just　like　us？　No。”
“Why　did　Sonya　run　away？”　asked　Rostov。
“Oh；　there’s　a　lot　to　say　about　that！　How　are　you　going　to　speak　to　Sonya？　Shall　you　call　her　‘thou’　or　‘you’？”
“As　it　happens；”　said　Rostov。
“Call　her　‘you；’　please；　I’ll　tell　you　why　afterwards。”
“But　why？”
“Well；　I’ll　tell　you　now。　You　know　that　Sonya’s　my　friend；　such　a　friend　that　I　burnt　my　arm　for　her　sake。　Here；　look。”　She　pulled　up　her　muslin　sleeve　and　showed　him　on　her　long；　thin；　soft　arm　above　the　elbow　near　the　shoulder　（on　the　part　which　is　covered　even　in　a　ball…dress）　a　red　mark。
“I　burnt　that　to　show　her　my　love。　I　simply　heated　a　ruler　in　the　fire　and　pressed　it　on　it。”
Sitting　in　his　old　schoolroom　on　the　sofa　with　little　cushions　on　the　arms；　and　looking　into　Natasha’s　wildly　eager　eyes；　Rostov　was　carried　back　into　that　world　of　home　and　childhood　which　had　no　meaning　for　any　one　else　but　gave　him　some　of　the　greatest　pleasures　in　his　life。　And　burning　one’s　arm　with　a　ruler　as　a　proof　of　love　did　not　strike　him　as　pointless；　he　understood　it；　and　was　not　surprised　at　it。
“Well；　is　that　all？”　he　asked。
“Well；　we　are　such　friends；　such　great　friends！　That’s　nonsense—the　ruler；　but　we　are　friends　for　ever。　If　she　once　loves　any　one；　it’s　for　ever；　I　don’t　understand　that；　I　forget　so　quickly。”
“Well；　what　then？”
“Yes；　so　she　loves　me　and　you。”　Natasha　suddenly　flushed。　“Well；　you　remember　before　you　went　away　…　She　says　you　are　to　forget　it　all…　She　said；　I　shall　always　love　him；　but　let　him　be　free。　That　really　is　splendid；　noble！　Yes；　yes；　very　noble？　Yes？”　Natasha　asked　with　such　seriousness　and　emotion　that　it　was　clear　that　what　she　was　saying　now　she　had　talked　of　before　with　tears。　Rostov　thought　a　little。
“I　never　take　back　my　word；”　he　said。　“And　besides；　Sonya’s　so　charming　that　who　would　be　such　a　fool　as　to　renounce　his　own　happiness？”
“No；　no；”　cried　Natasha。　“She　and　I　have　talked　about　that　already。　We　knew　that　you’d　say　that。　But　that　won’t　do；　because；　don’t　you　see；　if　you　say　that—if　you　consider　yourself　bound　by　your　word；　then　it　makes　it　as　though　she　had　said　that　on　purpose。　It　makes　it　as　though　you　were；　after　all；　obliged　to　marry　her；　and　it　makes　it　all　wrong。”
Rostov　saw　that　it　had　all　been　well　thought　over　by　them。　On　the　previous　day；　Sonya　had　struck　him　by　her　beauty；　in　the　glimpse　he　had　caught　of　her　to…day；　she　seemed　even　prettier。　She　was　a　charming　girl　of　sixteen；　obviously　passionately　in　love　with　him　（of　that　he　could　not　doubt　for　an　instant）。　“Why　should　he　not　love　her　now；　even　if　he　did　not　marry　her；”　mused　Rostov；　“but　…　just　now　he　had　so　many　other　joys　and　interests！”
“Yes；　that’s　a　very　good　conclusion　on　their　part；”　he　thought；　“I　must　remain　free。”
“Well；　that’s　all　right；　then；”　he　said；　“we’ll　talk　about　it　later　on。　Ah；　how　glad　I　am　to　be　back　with　you！”　he　added。　“Come；　tell　me；　you’ve　not　been　false　to　Boris？”
“That’s　nonsense！”　cried　Natasha；　laughing。　“I　never　think　of　him　nor　of　any　one　else；　and　don’t　want　to。”
“Oh；　you　don’t；　don’t　you！　Then　what　do　you　want？”
“I？”　Natasha　queried；　and　her　face　beamed　with　a　happy　smile。　“Have　you　seen　Duport？”
“No。”
“Not　seen　Duport；　the　celebrated　dancer？　Oh；　well　then；　you　won’t　understand。　I—that’s　what　I　am。”　Curving　her　arms；　Natasha　held　out　her　skirt；　as　dancers　do；　ran　back　a　few　steps；　whirled　round；　executed　a　pirouette；　bringing　her　little　feet　together　and　standing　on　the　very　tips　of　her　toes；　moved　a　few　steps　forward。
“You　see　how　I　stand？　there；　like　this；”　she　kept　saying；　but　she　could　not　keep　on　her　toes。　“So　that’s　what　I’m　going　to　be！　I’m　never　going　to　be　married　to　any　one；　I’m　going　to　be　a　dancer。　Only；　don’t　tell　anybody。”
Rostov　laughed　so　loudly　and　merrily　that　Denisov　in　his　room　felt　envious；