War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy [438]
“That’s the way!” the count cried, opening his wet eyes and breaking off several times to sniff, as if a vial of strong smelling salts had been put to his nose. “The sovereign need only say it, and we’ll sacrifice everything with no regrets.”
Before Shinshin had time to tell the joke he had prepared about the count’s patriotism, Natasha jumped up from her place and ran over to her father.
“What a darling he is, this papa!” she said, kissing him, and she again glanced at Pierre with that unconscious coquetry which had come back to her along with her animation.
“There’s a little patriot for you!” said Shinshin.
“Not a little patriot at all, but just…” Natasha replied touchily. “Everything’s funny to you, but this isn’t a joke at all…”
“Some joke!” the count repeated. “He need only say the word, and we’ll all go…We’re not some sort of Germans…”
“And did you notice,” asked Pierre, “that it said ‘for consultation’?”
“Well, whatever it’s for…”
Just then Petya, to whom no one paid attention, went up to his father and, all red, in a breaking voice, now gruff, now shrill, said:
“Well, so, papa dear, I’d say definitely—and mama, too, like it or not—I’d say definitely that you’ll let me go into military service, because otherwise I can’t…that’s all…”
The countess raised her eyes to heaven with horror, clasped her hands, and turned angrily to her husband.
“There’s your talking for you!” she said.
But the count recovered from his excitement that same moment.
“Well, well,” he said. “Another warrior! Forget this foolishness: you must study.”
“It’s not foolishness, papa. Fedya Obolensky is younger than I am and he’s going, and the main thing is that anyhow I can’t study anything now, when…” Petya stopped, blushed hotly, and managed to bring out: “…when the fatherland is in danger.”
“Enough, enough, it’s foolishness…”
“But you said yourself that we’d sacrifice everything.”
“Petya, be quiet, I’m telling you,” the count cried, glancing at his wife, who, turning pale, was looking with fixed eyes at her younger son.
“And I’m telling you. And Pyotr Kirillovich here will say…”
“I’m telling you it’s nonsense, the milk isn’t dry on your lips, and you want to serve in the army! Well, well, I’m telling you,” and the count, taking the papers with him, probably in order to read them once more in his study before napping, started out of the room.
“Pyotr Kirillovich, what do you say we go for a smoke…”
Pierre found himself in confusion and irresolution. Natasha’s unusually brilliant and animated eyes, constantly turning to him with more than affection, had brought him to that state.
“No, I think I’ll go home…”
“What do you mean, home? You wanted to spend the evening with us…You come rarely as it is. And this girl of mine…” the count said good-naturedly, pointing to Natasha, “is only cheerful when you’re here…”
“Yes, but I forgot…I really must go home…Things to do…” Pierre said hurriedly.
“Well, good-bye, then,” said the count, leaving the room altogether.
“Why are you going? Why are you upset? Why?…” Natasha asked Pierre, looking challengingly into his eyes.
“Because I love you!” he wanted to say, but he did not say it, blushed to the point of tears, and lowered his eyes.
“Because it’s better that I visit you less often…Because..no, I simply have things to do…”
“But why? No, tell me,” Natasha began resolutely, and suddenly fell silent. They both looked at each other in fright and confusion. He tried to smile, but could not: his smile expressed suffering,