War and Peace: Original Version. Лев Толстой

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      “That poem was not written for the whole world,” he said, holding out his hand. “If you please!”

      “Ah, so it is not for everybody! Vera Pavlovna gave it to me.”

      “It’s so lovely, there is something very melodic about it,” said Julie Akhrosimova.

      “‘The Hussar’s Farewell’,” said Berg, and had the misfortune to smile. By now Nikolai was standing in front of him, holding his face close and glaring at the unfortunate Berg with wild eyes that seemed to pierce right through him.

      “You find something funny? What do you find funny?”

      “No, I didn’t know it was you who …”

      “What’s it to you whether it was me or not? Reading other people’s letters is a base act.”

      “I beg your pardon,” said Berg, blushing in alarm.

      “Nikolai,” said Boris. “Monsieur Berg was not reading other people’s letters … You’re about to do something stupid. Listen,” he said, putting the poem in his pocket, “come over here, I want to have a word with you.”

      Berg immediately moved away to join the ladies and Boris and Nikolai went out to the sitting room. Sonya ran out after them.

      Half an hour later all the young people were dancing the écossaise and Nikolai, having talked with Sonya in the sitting room, was once again the same merry and agile dancer as always, and now felt astonished at his own irascibility and annoyed at his indecent outburst.

      Everybody was feeling very jolly, even Pierre, who confused the figures as he danced the écossaise under Boris’s supervision, and Natasha, who for some reason split her sides with laughter every time she glanced at him, which pleased him greatly.

      “How funny he is, and how splendid,” she said first to Boris, and then to Pierre himself, straight to his face, looking naïvely up into his eyes.

      In the middle of the third écossaise, chairs began moving in the sitting room, where the count and Marya Dmitrievna were playing cards, and most of the honoured guests and the old folks, stretching themselves after sitting so long and putting their wallets and purses back into their pockets, came out through the doors into the hall. At the front came Marya Dmitrievna and the count, both with cheerful faces. The count offered his curved arm to Marya Dmitrievna in a gesture of facetious politeness, almost balletically. He drew himself erect and his face was illuminated by an extraordinary smile of rakish cunning, and as soon as they had finished dancing the final figure of the écossaise, he clapped his hands to the musicians and shouted up into the gallery, to the first violin.

      “Semyon! Do you know the Daniel Cooper?”

      This was the count’s favourite dance, danced by him in his youth (strictly speaking, the Daniel Cooper was one figure of the anglaise).

      “Look at papa,” cried Natasha so loudly that everyone could hear, bending her curly head down to her knees and setting the entire hall ringing with her peals of laughter. And indeed, everyone who was there in the hall gazed with a smile of joy at the jolly little old man beside his stately lady, Marya Dmitrievna, who was taller than he, as he curved his arms and shook them in time, straightened his shoulders, turned out his feet, tapping them lightly and, with the smile spreading further and further across his round face, prepared his audience for what was to come. As soon as the jolly, challenging strains of the Daniel Cooper began to ring out like a merry vagabond song, all the doors of the hall were suddenly crammed full, by male faces on one side and, on the other, by the smiling female faces of all the servants who had come out to look at their master making merry.

      “Our old father! What an eagle he is!” said a nanny from one door. The count danced well and he knew it, but his lady did not know how to dance at all and had no wish to dance well. Her massive body was held rigidly upright with her powerful arms lowered (she had handed her reticule to the countess) and only her severe but beautiful face danced. Everything that was expressed in the whole of the count’s rotund figure Mariya Dmitrievna expressed only in the ever brighter and wider smile on her face and her twitching nose. But while the count, working himself up more and more, captivated his audience with the sudden surprise of his nimble arabesques and the light capering of his soft legs, Marya Dmitrievna, by taking the very slightest pains in moving her shoulders or curving her arms, in turning and stamping her feet, produced no less an impression for her efforts, which were appreciated by everyone in view of her corpulence and customary severity. The dance grew more and more lively. The other dancers were unable to attract the slightest attention to themselves, and gave up trying. All eyes were riveted on the count and Marya Dmitrievna. Natasha tugged at the sleeves and dresses of everyone around her, who in any case already had their eyes fixed on the dancers, and demanded that they watch her dear papa. In the pauses in the dance the count struggled to catch his breath, waving his hand to the musicians and shouting for them to play faster. Quicker and quicker, ever more jauntily, the count twirled this way and that, hurtling around Marya Dmitrievna, now on his tiptoes, now on his heels and finally, having swung his lady back to her place, he took the final bow, drawing his supple leg back behind him, lowering his perspiring head with its smiling face and stretching out his curved right arm in a broad sweep amid thunderous applause and laughter, especially from Natasha. Both dancers stopped, struggling to catch their breath and wiping their faces with fine lawn handkerchiefs.

       DANCING THE DANIEL COOPER Drawing by M.S. Bashilov, 1866

      “That’s how they used to dance in our time, ma chère,” said the count.

      “Hurrah for Daniel Cooper!” puffed Marya Dmitrievna, breathing out long and hard.

      XXVIII

      While at the Rostovs’ house they were dancing the sixth anglaise to weary musicians playing out of tune and the weary footmen and chefs were preparing supper, discussing among themselves how the masters were able to keep on eating – they had only just finished their tea and now it was supper time again – at this very hour, Count Bezukhov suffered his sixth stroke, and with the doctors declaring there was no hope of recovery, the sick man was given mute confession and communion, and preparations began to be made for extreme unction, filling the house with the bustle and anxious anticipation usual at such moments. Outside the house, beyond the gates, concealing themselves from the carriages that were arriving, a throng of undertakers waited in anticipation of a rich commission for the count’s funeral. The commander-in-chief of Moscow, who had repeatedly sent his adjutants to enquire after the count’s condition, came himself that evening to take his leave of one of the representatives of the age of Catherine the Great. The count was said to be seeking someone with his eyes, asking for them. A mounted servant was sent for both Pierre and Anna Mikhailovna.

      The magnificent reception room was full. Everyone rose respectfully when the commander-in-chief, who had spent about half an hour alone with the sick man, emerged, barely responding to their bows and trying to walk as quickly as possible past the glances trained on him by the doctors, clergymen and relatives. Prince Vasily, grown thinner and paler over the last few days, walked beside him, and everyone watched the commander-in-chief shake his hand and repeat something quietly to him several times.

      Having СКАЧАТЬ