War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy [195]
The old countess, never letting go of his hand, which she kissed every other moment, sat next to him; the rest clustered around them, catching his every movement, word, gaze, and not taking their rapturously loving eyes off him. His brother and sisters argued, and snatched the places nearest to him from each other, and fought over who was going to bring him tea, a handkerchief, a pipe.
Rostov was very happy in the love that was shown him, but the first moment of their meeting had been so blissful that his present happiness seemed too little to him, and he kept waiting for more, and more, and more.
The next morning the new arrivals slept till past nine.
In the adjoining room, sabers, bags, pouches, open suitcases, dirty boots lay about. Two pairs of polished boots with spurs had just been put near the wall. The servants brought washbasins and hot water for shaving, and brushed their clothes. There was a smell of tobacco and men.
“Hey, Rishka, my pipe!” cried Vaska Denisov’s hoarse voice. “Get up, Rostov!”
Rostov, rubbing his glued-together eyes, raised his disheveled head from the hot pillow.
“What, is it late?”
“Yes. It’s past nine,” Natasha’s voice replied, and in the next room the rustle of starched skirts, whispers, and the laughter of girls’ voices were heard, and through the slightly open door flashed something light blue, ribbons, dark hair, and merry faces. This was Natasha, with Sonya and Petya, who had come to see whether he had gotten up.
“Nikolenka, get up!” Natasha’s voice was again heard at the door.
“Right away!”
Just then Petya, glimpsing the sabers in the adjoining room, and seizing them with the feeling of rapture which boys experience at the sight of a military older brother, and forgetting that it was improper for his sisters to see undressed men, opened the door.
“Is this your saber?” he shouted. The girls jumped away. Denisov, with frightened eyes, hid his shaggy legs under the blanket, glancing at his friend for help. The door admitted Petya and closed again. Behind the door there was laughter.
“Nikolenka, come out in your dressing gown,” said Natasha’s voice.
“Is this your saber?” asked Petya. “Or is it yours?” he turned to the mustached, black Denisov with obsequious respect.
Rostov hastily put on his shoes, his dressing gown, and went out. Natasha had put on one spurred boot and was getting into the other. Sonya was twirling and was just about to balloon her dress and crouch down when he came in. The two girls, in identical new light blue dresses, were fresh, red-cheeked, merry. Sonya ran away, but Natasha, taking her brother under the arm, led him to the sitting room, and started talking with him. They hastened to ask and answer each other about a thousand little things that could interest only them. Natasha laughed at every word he said and she said—not because what they were saying was funny, but because she felt merry and was unable to hold back her joy, which expressed itself in laughter.
“Ah, how good, excellent!” she added after every word. Rostov felt how his face and soul expanded under the influence of these hot rays of Natasha’s love, for the first time in a year and a half, into that childish and pure smile which he had not once smiled since he left home.
“No, listen,” she said, “you’re quite a man now. I’m terribly glad you’re my brother.” She touched his mustache. “I’d like to know how you men are. Are you like us?”
“No. Why did Sonya run away?” Rostov asked.
“Ah, that’s a whole other story! How are you going to address Sonya, as ‘Miss’ or not?”
“However it happens,” said Rostov.
“Address her as ‘Miss,’ please, I’ll tell you later.”
“But what?”
“Well, then I’ll tell you now. You know that Sonya’s my friend, such a friend that I’d burn my arm for her. Look here.” She pushed up her muslin sleeve and showed a red mark on her long, thin, and delicate arm, below the shoulder but far above the elbow (where it is covered even by ball gowns).
“I burned it to show her my love. I just heated a ruler in the fire and pressed it there.”
Sitting in his