《War And Peace》　Book1 　CHAPTER XVII
　　　　by Leo Tolstoy

THE CARD-TABLES were opened, parties were made up for boston, and the count's
guests settled themselves in the two drawing-rooms, the divan-room, and the
library.

The count, holding his cards in a fan, with some difficulty kept himself from
dropping into his customary after-dinner nap, and laughed at everything. The
young people, at the countess's suggestion, gathered about the clavichord and
the harp. Julie was first pressed by every one to perform, and played a piece
with variations on the harp. Then she joined the other young ladies in begging
Natasha and Nikolay, who were noted for their musical talents, to sing
something. Natasha, who was treated by every one as though she were grown-up,
was visibly very proud of it, and at the same time made shy by it.

"What are we to sing?" she asked.

"The 'Spring,' " answered Nikolay.

"Well, then, let's make haste. Boris, come here," said Natasha. "But where's
Sonya?" She looked round, and seeing that her friend was not in the room, she
ran off to find her.

After running to Sonya's room, and not finding her there, Natasha ran to the
nursery: Sonya was not there either. Natasha knew that she must be on the chest
in the corridor. The chest in the corridor was the scene of the woes of the
younger feminine generation of the house of Rostov. Yes, Sonya was on the chest,
lying face downwards, crushing her gossamer pink frock on their old nurse's
dirty striped feather-bed. Her face hidden in her fingers, she was sobbing, and
her little bare shoulders were heaving. Natasha's birthday face that had been
festive and excited all day, changed at once; her eyes wore a fixed look, then
her broad neck quivered, and the corners of her lips drooped.

"Sonya! what is it? ... what's the matter with you? Oo-oo-oo! ..." and Natasha,
letting her big mouth drop open and becoming quite ugly, wailed like a baby, not
knowing why, simply because Sonya was crying. Sonya tried to lift up her head,
tried to answer, but could not, and buried her face more than ever. Natasha
cried, sitting on the edge of the blue feather-bed and hugging her friend.
Making an effort, Sonya got up, began to dry her tears and to talk.

"Nikolinka's going away in a week, his ... paper ... has come ... he told me
himself. ... But still I shouldn't cry ..." (she showed a sheet of paper she was
holding in her hand; on it were verses written by Nikolay). "I shouldn't have
cried; but you can't ... no one can understand ... what a soul he has."

And again she fell to weeping at the thought of how noble his soul was.

"It's all right for you ... I'm not envious ... I love you and Boris too," she
said, controlling herself a little; "he's so nice ... there are no difficulties in
your way. But Nikolay's my cousin ... the metropolitan chief priest himself ... has
to ... or else it's impossible. And so, if mamma's told" (Sonya looked on the
countess and addressed her as a mother), "she'll say that I'm spoiling Nikolay's
career, that I have no heart, that I'm ungrateful, though really ... in God's
name" (she made the sign of the cross) "I love her so, and all of you, only Vera
... Why is it? What have I done to her? I am so grateful to you that I would be
glad to sacrifice everything for you, but I have nothing. ..."

Sonya could say no more, and again she buried her head in her hands and the
feather-bed. Natasha tried to comfort her, but her face showed that she grasped
all the gravity of her friend's trouble.

"Sonya!" she said all at once, as though she had guessed the real cause of
her cousin's misery, "of course Vera's been talking to you since dinner?
Yes?"

"Yes, these verses Nikolay wrote himself, and I copied some others; and she
found them on my table, and said she should show them to mamma, and she said too
that I was ungrateful, and that mamma would never allow him to marry me, but
that he would marry Julie. You see how he has been with her all day ... Natasha!
why is it?"

And again she sobbed more bitterly than ever. Natasha lifted her up, hugged
her, and, smiling through her tears, began comforting her.

"Sonya, don't you believe her, darling; don't believe her. Do you remember
how we talked with Nikolay, all three of us together, in the divan-room, do you
remember, after supper? Why, we settled how it should all be. I don't quite
remember now, but do you remember, it was all right and all possible. Why, uncle
Shinshin's brother is married to his first cousin, and we're only second
cousins, you know. And Boris said that it's quite easily arranged. You know I
told him all about it. He's so clever and so good," said Natasha. ... "Don't cry,
Sonya, darling, sweet one, precious, Sonya," and she kissed her, laughing. "Vera
is spiteful; never mind her! and it will all come right and she won't tell
mamma. Nikolinka will tell her himself, and he's never thought of Julie."

And she kissed her on the head. Sonya got up, and the kitten revived; its
eyes sparkled, and it was ready, it seemed, to wag its tail, spring on its soft
paws and begin to play with a ball, in its own natural, kittenish way.

"Do you think so? Really? Truly?" she said rapidly, smoothing her frock and
her hair.

"Really, truly," answered Natasha, putting back a stray coil of rough hair on
her friend's head; and they both laughed. "Well, come along and sing the
'Spring.' "

"Let's go, then."

"And do you know that fat Pierre, who was sitting opposite me, he's so
funny!" Natasha said suddenly, stopping. "I am enjoying myself so," and Natasha
ran along the corridor.

Brushing off the feather fluff from her frock, and thrusting the verses into
her bodice next her little throat and prominent breast-bones, Sonya ran with
flushed face and light, happy steps, following Natasha along the corridor to the
divan-room. At the request of their guests the young people sang the quartette
the "Spring," with which every one was delighted; then Nikolay sang a song he
had lately learnt.

And he had hardly sung the last words when the young people were getting
ready to dance in the big hall, and the musicians began stamping with their feet
and coughing in the orchestra.

Pierre was sitting in the drawing-room, where Shinshin had started a
conversation with him on the political situation, as a subject likely to be of
interest to any one who had just come home from abroad, though it did not in
fact interest Pierre. Several other persons joined in the conversation. When the
orchestra struck up, Natasha walked into the drawing-room, and going straight up
to Pierre, laughing and blushing, she said, "Mamma told me to ask you to
dance."

"I'm afraid of muddling the figures," said Pierre, "but if you will be my
teacher ..." and he gave his fat hand to the slim little girl, putting his arm low
down to reach her level.

While the couples were placing themselves and the musicians were tuning up,
Pierre sat down with his little partner. Natasha was perfectly happy; she was
dancing with a grown-up person, with a man who had just come from abroad. She
was sitting in view of every one and talking to him like a grown-up person. She
had in her hand a fan, which some lady had given her to hold, and taking the
most modish pose (God knows where and when she had learnt it), fanning herself
and smiling all over her face, she talked to her partner.

"What a girl! Just look at her, look at her!" said the old countess, crossing
the big hall and pointing to Natasha. Natasha coloured and laughed.

"Why, what do you mean, mamma? Why should you laugh? Is there anything
strange about it?"

In the middle of the third écossaise there was a clatter of chairs in the
drawing-room, where the count and Marya Dmitryevna were playing, and the greater
number of the more honoured guests and elderly people stretching themselves
after sitting so long, put their pocket-books and purses in their pockets and
came out to the door of the big hall. In front of all came Marya Dmitryevna and
the count, both with radiant faces. The count gave his arm, curved into a hoop,
to Marya Dmitryevna with playfully exaggerated ceremony, like a ballet-dancer.
He drew himself up, and his face beamed with a peculiar, jauntily-knowing smile,
and as soon as they had finished dancing the last figure of the écossaise, he
clapped his hands to the orchestra, and shouted to the first violin: "Semyon! do
you know 'Daniel Cooper'?"

That was the count's favourite dance that he had danced in his youth. (Daniel
Cooper was the name of a figure of the anglaise.)

"Look at papa!" Natasha shouted to all the room (entirely forgetting that she
was dancing with a grown-up partner), and ducking down till her curly head
almost touched her knees, she went off into her ringing laugh that filled the
hall. Every one in the hall was, in fact, looking with a smile of delight at the
gleeful old gentleman. Standing beside his majestic partner, Marya Dmitryevna,
who was taller than he was, he curved his arms, swaying them in time to the
music, moved his shoulders, twirled with his legs, lightly tapping with his
heels, and with a broadening grin on his round face, prepared the spectators for
what was to come. As soon as the orchestra played the gay, irresistible air of
Daniel Cooper, somewhat like a livelier Russian trepak, all the doorways
of the big hall were suddenly filled with the smiling faces of the
house-serfs-men on one side, and women on the other-come to look at their master
making merry.

"Our little father! An eagle he is!" the old nurse said out loud at one
door.

The count danced well and knew that he did, but his partner could not dance
at all, and did not care about dancing well. Her portly figure stood erect, with
her mighty arms hanging by her side (she had handed her reticule to the
countess). It was only her stern, but comely face that danced. What was
expressed by the whole round person of the count, was expressed by Marya
Dmitryevna in her more and more beaming countenance and puckered nose. While the
count, with greater and greater expenditure of energy, enchanted the spectators
by the unexpectedness of the nimble pirouettes and capers of his supple legs,
Marya Dmitryevna with the slightest effort in the movement of her shoulders or
curving of her arms, when they turned or marked the time with their feet,
produced no less impression from the contrast, which everyone appreciated, with
her portliness and her habitualseverity of demeanour. The dance grew more and
more animated. The vis-à-vis could not obtain one moment's attention, and
did not attempt to do so. All attention was absorbed by the count and Marya
Dmitryevna. Natasha pulled at the sleeve or gown of every one present, urging
them to look at papa, though they never took their eyes off the dancers. In the
pauses in the dance the count drew a deep breath, waved his hands and shouted to
the musician to play faster. More and more quickly, more and more nimbly the
count pirouetted, turning now on his toes and now on his heels, round Marya
Dmitryevna. At last, twisting his lady round to her place, he executed the last
steps, kicking his supple legs up behind him, and bowing his perspiring head and
smiling face, with a round sweep of his right arm, amidst a thunder of applause
and laughter, in which Natasha's laugh was loudest. Both partners stood still,
breathing heavily, and mopping their faces with their batiste
handkerchiefs.

"That's how they used to dance in our day, ma chère, said the
count.

"Bravo, Daniel Cooper!" said Marya Dmitryevna, tucking up her sleeves and
drawing a deep, prolonged breath.