War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy [745]
And—it must have been because Nikolai did not allow himself the thought that he was doing anything for others out of virtuousness—all that he did was fruitful: his fortune quickly increased; neighboring muzhiks came asking him to buy them; and long after his death, the pious memory of his management was preserved among the people. “He was a master…The muzhiks’ affairs first, and then his own. But he never went easy on us. In short—a master!”
VIII
The one thing that tormented Nikolai in his running of the estate was his hot temper, combined with the old hussar habit of making free with his fists. At first he saw nothing reprehensible in it, but in the second year of his marriage, his view of this sort of reprisal suddenly changed.
Once in the summer the headman from Bogucharovo was summoned, the one who had replaced the late Dron and who was accused of various frauds and irregularities. Nikolai came out to him on the porch, and with the headman’s first answers, shouts and blows could be heard in the front hall. Returning home for lunch, Nikolai went up to his wife, who was sitting with her head bent low over her embroidery, and began telling her, as usual, everything he had been busy with that morning and, incidentally, about the Bogucharovo headman. Countess Marya, turning red, then pale, and pursing her lips, sat in the same way, her head bowed, and made no reply to her husband’s words.
“Such an impudent scoundrel,” he said, getting angry at the mere recollection. “He could have told me he was drunk, didn’t see…What’s wrong, Marie?” he suddenly asked.
Countess Marya raised her head, was about to say something, then quickly looked down again and pressed her lips.
“What is it? What’s wrong, my dearest?…”
The homely Countess Marya always became pretty when she wept. She never wept from pain or vexation, but always from sadness and pity. And when she wept, her luminous eyes became irresistibly lovely.
As soon as Nikolai took her hand, she was unable to restrain herself and began to weep.
“Nicolas, I saw…he was wrong, but you, why did you! Nicolas!…” And she covered her face with her hands.
Nikolai fell silent, blushed deeply, and, moving away from her, silently began pacing the room. He understood what she was weeping about, but in his soul he could not suddenly agree with her that something he had lived with since childhood and considered most ordinary—was bad.
“Is this gentilities, old wives’ tales, or is she right?” he asked himself. Without deciding the question for himself, he glanced once again at her suffering and loving face and suddenly understood that she was right, and he had long been in the wrong with himself.
“Marie,” he said softly, going up to her, “it will never happen again; I give you my word. Never,” he repeated in a quavering voice, like a boy asking forgiveness.
The tears flowed still more abundantly from the countess’s eyes. She took her husband’s hand and kissed it.
“Nicolas, when did you break the cameo?” she said, to change the subject, studying his hand, on which there was a signet ring with the head of Laocoön.
“Today, all that same thing. Ah, Marie, don’t remind me of it.” He blushed deeply again. “I give you my word of honor that it won’t happen again. And let this always remind me of it,” he said, pointing to the broken ring.
From then on, in talking with headmen and stewards, the moment the blood rushed to his face and his hands began clenching into fists, Nikolai turned the broken ring on his finger and lowered his eyes before the man who had angered him. However, about twice a year he would forget himself and would then come to his wife, confess, and again promise her that this was now the very last time.
“Marie, you surely despise me?” he would say to her. “I deserve it.”
“You should walk away, walk away quickly, if you feel you can’t control yourself,” Countess Marya would say with sadness, trying