War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy [423]
“Let him be,” Marya Genrikhovna said with a timid and happy smile, “he’s sleeping well as it is after a sleepless night.”
“Never, Marya Genrikhovna,” the officer replied, “we must wait upon our doctor. Maybe he’ll pity me when he’s cutting off my leg or arm.”
There were only three glasses; the water was so dirty that it was impossible to tell whether the tea was strong or weak, and the samovar only held water enough for six glasses, but the more pleasant it was to receive one’s glass in turn and by seniority from the plump little hands of Marya Genrikhovna with their short, none-too-clean nails. All the officers, it seemed, were actually in love with Marya Genrikhovna that evening. Even the officers who were playing cards behind the partition soon stopped playing and went over to the samovar, yielding to the general atmosphere of courting Marya Genrikhovna. Marya Genrikhovna, seeing herself surrounded by such brilliant and polite young men, shone with happiness, however she tried to hide it, and however timid she became at every movement her sleeping husband made behind her back.
Of spoons there was only one, sugar was more plentiful than anything else, but they could not all stir at the same time, and so it was decided that she would stir the sugar for each of them in turn. Rostov, receiving his glass, poured some rum into it and asked Marya Genrikhovna to stir it.
“But do you take it without sugar?” she asked, with the same smile as if everything she said and everything the others said was very funny and had some other meaning.
“Never mind the sugar, I just want you to stir it with your little hand.”
Marya Genrikhovna agreed and began looking for the spoon, which someone had already snatched up.
“Use your finger, Marya Genrikhovna,” said Rostov, “that will be even nicer.”
“It’s too hot!” said Marya Genrikhovna, blushing with pleasure.
Ilyin took a bucket of water and, pouring a drop of rum into it, came to Marya Genrikhovna, asking her to stir it with her finger.
“This is my cup,” he said. “Only dip your finger into it, and I’ll drink it all.”
When the whole samovar had been drunk, Rostov took the cards and suggested a game of “kings” with Marya Genrikhovna. They drew lots for who would be Marya Genrikhovna’s partner. The rules of the game were, at Rostov’s suggestion, that whoever was the king had the right to kiss Marya Genrikhovna’s hand, and that whoever was left the knave would go and prepare a new samovar for the doctor when he woke up.
“And what if Marya Genrikhovna is the king?” asked Ilyin.
“She’s the queen as it is! And her orders are law.”
The game had only just begun when the doctor’s tousled head suddenly rose up behind Marya Genrikhovna. He had been awake for a long time and listening to what was being said, and he clearly found nothing gay, funny, or amusing in all that was being said and done. His face was sad and glum. He did not greet the officers, scratched himself, and asked to be allowed to step out, because they tried to bar his way. As soon as he left, all the officers burst into loud guffaws, and Marya Genrikhovna blushed to the point of tears and became still more attractive in the eyes of all the officers. When he came back in, the doctor said to his wife (who had already stopped smiling so happily and looked at him, fearfully awaiting her sentence) that the rain had stopped and they had to go and spend the night in their kibitka, or else everything would be stolen.
“But I’ll send an orderly…two orderlies!” said Rostov. “Come on, Doctor.”
“I’ll stand watch myself!” said Ilyin.
“No, gentlemen, you’ve had enough sleep, and I haven’t slept for two nights,” the doctor said and gloomily sat down beside to his wife,