peasants?’ and imagined that he could not bear them.
Yet he loved ‘our Russian peasants’ and their way of life
with his whole soul, and for that very reason had understood and assimilated the one way and manner of farming
which produced good results.
Countess Mary was jealous of this passion of her husband’s and regretted that she could not share it; but she
could not understand the joys and vexations he derived
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from that world, to her so remote and alien. She could not
understand why he was so particularly animated and happy
when, after getting up at daybreak and spending the whole
morning in the fields or on the threshing floor, he returned
from the sowing or mowing or reaping to have tea with her.
She did not understand why he spoke with such admiration and delight of the farming of the thrifty and well-to-do
peasant Matthew Ermishin, who with his family had carted
corn all night; or of the fact that his (Nicholas’) sheaves were
already stacked before anyone else had his harvest in. She
did not understand why he stepped out from the window
to the veranda and smiled under his mustache and winked
so joyfully, when warm steady rain began to fall on the dry
and thirsty shoots of the young oats, or why when the wind
carried away a threatening cloud during the hay harvest he
would return from the barn, flushed, sunburned, and perspiring, with a smell of wormwood and gentian in his hair
and, gleefully rubbing his hands, would say: ‘Well, one more
day and my grain and the peasants’ will all be under cover.’
Still less did she understand why he, kindhearted and always ready to anticipate her wishes, should become almost
desperate when she brought him a petition from some peasant men or women who had appealed to her to be excused
some work; why he, that kind Nicholas, should obstinately
refuse her, angrily asking her not to interfere in what was
not her business. She felt he had a world apart, which he
loved passionately and which had laws she had not fathomed.
Sometimes when, trying to understand him, she spoke
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of the good work he was doing for his serfs, he would be
vexed and reply: ‘Not in the least; it never entered my head
and I wouldn’t do that for their good! That’s all poetry and
old wives’ talkall that doing good to one’s neighbor! What
I want is that our children should not have to go begging.
I must put our affairs in order while I am alive, that’s all.
And to do that, order and strictness are essential…. That’s all
about it!’ said he, clenching his vigorous fist. ‘And fairness,
of course,’ he added, ‘for if the peasant is naked and hungry
and has only one miserable horse, he can do no good either
for himself or for me.’
And all Nicholas did was fruitfulprobably just because he
refused to allow himself to think that he was doing good to
others for virtue’s sake. His means increased rapidly; serfs
from neighboring estates came to beg him to buy them, and
long after his death the memory of his administration was
devoutly preserved among the serfs. ‘He was a master… the
peasants’ affairs first and then his own. Of course he was
not to be trifled with eitherin a word, he was a real master!’
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One matter connected with his management sometimes
worried Nicholas, and that was his quick temper together
with his old hussar habit of making free use of his fists. At
first he saw nothing reprehensible in this, but in the second
year of his marriage his view of that form of punishment suddenly changed.
Once in summer he had sent for the village elder from Bogucharovo, a man who had succeeded to the post when Dron
died and who was accused of dishonesty and various irregularities. Nicholas went out into the porch to question him,
and immediately after the elder had given a few replies the
sound of cries and blows were heard. On returning to lunch
Nicholas went up to his wife, who sat with her head bent low
over her embroidery frame, and as usual began to tell her
what he had been doing that morning. Among other things
he spoke of the Bogucharovo elder. Countess Mary turned
red and then pale, but continued to sit with head bowed and
lips compressed and gave her husband no reply.
‘Such an insolent scoundrel!’ he cried, growing hot again at
the mere recollection of him. ‘If he had told me he was drunk
and did not see… But what is the matter with you, Mary?’ he
suddenly asked.
Countess Mary raised her head and tried to speak, but
hastily looked down again and her lips puckered.
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‘Why, whatever is the matter, my dearest?’
The looks of the plain Countess Mary always improved
when she was in tears. She never cried from pain or vexation,
but always from sorrow or pity, and when she wept her radiant eyes acquired an irresistible charm.
The moment Nicholas took her hand she could no longer
restrain herself and began to cry.
‘Nicholas, I saw it… he was to blame, but why do you…
Nicholas!’ and she covered her face with her hands.
Nicholas said nothing. He flushed crimson, left her side,
and paced up and down the room. He understood what she
was weeping about, but could not in his heart at once agree
with her that what he had regarded from childhood as quite
an everyday event was wrong. ‘Is it just sentimentality, old
wives’ tales, or is she right?’ he asked himself. Before he had
solved that point he glanced again at her face filled with love
and pain, and he suddenly realized that she was right and
that he had long been sinning against himself.
‘Mary,’ he said softly, going up to her, ‘it will never happen
again; I give you my word. Never,’ he repeated in a trembling
voice like a boy asking for forgiveness.
The tears flowed faster still from the countess’ eyes. She
took his hand and kissed it.
‘Nicholas, when when did you break your cameo?’ she
asked to change the subject, looking at his finger on which he
wore a ring with a cameo of Laocoon’s head.
‘Todayit was the same affair. Oh, Mary, don’t remind me
of it!’ and again he flushed. ‘I give you my word of honor it
shan’t occur again, and let this always be a reminder to me,’
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and he pointed to the broken ring.
After that, when in discussions with his village elders or
stewards the blood rushed to his face and his fists began to
clench, Nicholas would turn the broken ring on his finger
and would drop his eyes before the man who was making
him angry. But he did forget himself once or twice within a
twelvemonth, and then he would go and confess to his wife,
and would again promise that this should really be the very
last time.
‘Mary, you must despise me!’ he would say. ‘I deserve it.’
‘You should go, go away at once, if you don’t feel strong
enough to control yourself,’ she would reply sadly, trying to
comfort her husband.
Among the gentry of the province Nicholas was respected
but not liked. He did not concern himself with the interests
of his own class, and consequently some thought him proud
and others thought him stupid. The whole summer, from
spring sowing to harvest, he was busy with the work on his
farm. In autumn he gave himself up to hunting with the same
business like seriousnessleaving home for a month, or even
two, with his hunt. In winter he visited his other villages or
spent his time reading. The books he read were chiefly historical, and on these he spent a certain sum every year. He
was collecting, as he said, a serious library, and he made it
a rule to read through all the books he bought. He would sit
in his study with a grave air, readinga task he first imposed
upon himself as a duty, but which afterwards became a habit
affording him a special kind of pleasure and a consciousness of being occupied with serious matters. In winter, except
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for business excursions, he spent most of his time at home
making himself one with his family and entering into all the
details of his children’s relations with their mother. The harmony between him and his wife grew closer and closer and
he daily discovered fresh spiritual treasures in her.
From the time of his marriage Sonya had lived in his house.
Before that, Nicholas had told his wife all that had passed between himself and Sonya, blaming himself and commending
her. He had asked Princess Mary to be gentle and kind to his
cousin. She thoroughly realized the wrong he had done Sonya, felt herself to blame toward her, and imagined that her
wealth had influenced Nicholas’ choice. She could not find
fault with Sonya in any way and tried to be fond of her, but
often felt ill-will toward her which she could not overcome.
Once she had a talk with her friend Natasha about Sonya
and about her own injustice toward her.
‘You know,’ said Natasha, ‘you have read the Gospels a
great dealthere is a passage in them that just fits Sonya.’
‘What?’ asked Countess Mary, surprised.
‘‘To him that hath shall be given, and from him that hath
not shall be taken away.’ You remember? She is one that hath
not; why, I don’t know. Perhaps she lacks egotism, I don’t
know, but from her is taken away, and everything has been
taken away. Sometimes I am dreadfully sorry for her. Formerly I very much wanted Nicholas to marry her, but I always
had a sort of presentiment that it would not come off. She
is a sterile flower, you knowlike some strawberry blossoms.
Sometimes I am sorry for her, and sometimes I think she
doesn’t feel it as you or I would.’
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Though Countess Mary told Natasha that those words in
the Gospel must be understood differently, yet looking at Sonya she agreed with Natasha’s explanation. It really seemed
that Sonya did not feel her position trying, and had grown
quite reconciled to her lot as a sterile flower. She seemed to be
fond not so much of individuals as
