 War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy, translated by Elmler and Louise Maud, Book 7. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Eva Harnick, War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy, Book 7, Chapter 1. The Bible legend tells us that the absence of labour, idleness, was a condition of the first man's blessedness before the fall. Foreign man has retained a love of idleness, but the curse weighs on the race not only because we have to seek our bread in the sweat of our brows, but because our moral nature is such that we cannot be both idle and at ease. An inner voice tells us, we are in the wrong if we are idle. If man could find a state in which he felt that though idle he was fulfilling his duty, he would have found one of the conditions of man's primitive blessedness. And such a state of obligatory and irreproachable idleness is the lot of a whole class, the military. The chief attraction of military service has consisted and will consist in this compulsory and irreproachable idleness. Nicholas Rostov experienced this blissful condition to the full, when, after 1807, he continued to serve in the Pavlograd Regiment, in which he already commanded the squadron he had taken over from Denisov. Rostov had become a bluff, good-natured fellow, whom his Moscow acquaintances would have considered rather bad form, but who was liked and respected by his comrades, subordinates and superiors, and was well contented with his life. Of late in 1809, he found in letters from home more frequent complaints from his mother that their affairs were falling into greater and greater disorder, and that it was time for him to come back to gladden and comfort his old parents. Reading these letters, Nicholas felt a dread of their wanting to take him away from surroundings in which, protected from all the entanglements of life, he was living so calmly and quietly. He felt that, sooner or later, he would have to re-enter that little pool of life with its embarrassments and affairs to be straightened out, its accounts with stewards, quarrels and intrigues, its ties, society, and with Sonya's love and his promise to her. It was all dreadfully difficult and complicated. And he replied to his mother in cold, former letters in French, beginning, my dear mama, and ending, your obedient son, which said nothing or when he would return. In 1810 he received letters from his parents, in which they told him of Natasha's engagement to Volkonsky, and that the wedding would be in a year's time because the old prince made difficulties. This letter grieved and mortified Nicholas. In the first place, he was sorry that Natasha, for whom he cared more than for anyone else in the family, should be lost to the home. And secondly, from his hussar point of view, he regretted not to have been there to show that fellow, Volkonsky, that connection with him was no such great honor, after all, and that if he loved Natasha, he might dispense with permission from his dotard father. For a moment he hesitated whether he should not apply for leave in order to see Natasha before she was married, but then came the maneuvers and considerations about Sonia and about the confusion of their affairs, and Nicholas again put it off. But in the spring of that year, he received a letter from his mother, written without his father's knowledge, and that letter persuaded him to return. She wrote that if he did not come and take matters in hand, their whole property would be sold by auction, and they would all have to go begging. The count was so weak, and trusted Mityanka so much, and was so good-natured that everybody took advantage of him and thinks were going from bad to worse. For God's sake, I implore you, come at once, if you do not wish to make me and the whole family wretched, wrote the countess. This letter touched Nicholas. He had that common sense of a matter-of-fact man, which showed him what he ought to do. The right thing now was, if not to retire from the service at any rate to go home on leave. Why he had to go? He did not know, but after his after-dinner nap, he gave orders to settle Mars, an extremely vicious Grey Stallion that had not been ridden for a long time, and when he returned with the horse all in a lada, he informed Lavrushka, Dennis of Servant who had remained with him, and his comrades who turned up in the evening that he was applying for leave and was going home. Difficult and strange as it was for him to deflect that he would go away without having heard from the staff, and this interested him extremely whether he was promoted to a captaincy or would receive the order of sent in for the last maneuvers. Strange as it was to sing that he would go away without having sold his three roams to the Polish Count Golukowski, who was bargaining for the horses Rostov had betted, he would sell for two thousand rubles. Incomprehensible as it seemed that the ball the Hussars were giving in honour of the Polish Madmerzel Pratzietska out of rivalry to the Ulans who had given one in honour of their Polish Madmerzel Borzozowska, would take place without him. He knew he must go away from this good bright world to somewhere where everything was stupid and confused. A week later he obtained his leave. His Hussar comrades, not only those of his own regiment, but the whole brigade gave Rostov a dinner to which the subscription was fifteen rubles ahead and at which there were two bands and two choirs of singers. Rostov danced the trepac with Major Basov. The tipsy officers tossed, embraced and dropped Rostov. The soldiers of the 3rd squadron tossed him too and shouted Hurray and then they put him in his sleigh and escorted him as far as the first post station. During the first half of the journey from Kremenczuk to Kiev, all Rostov salts as is usual in such cases were behind him with the squadron. But when he had gone more than half way, he began to forget his three rones and dos hoivéko, his quartermaster, and to wonder anxiously how things would be at Otradno and what he would find there. Rostov home grew stronger the nearer he approached it, far stronger as though this feeling of his was subject to the law by which the force of attraction is in inverse proportion to the square of the distance. At the last post station before Otradno, he gave the driver a three ruble tip and on arriving he ran breastlessly like a boy up to the steps of his home. After the rapture of meeting and after that odd feeling of unsatisfied expectation, the feeling that everything is just the same, so why did I hurry? Nicholas began to settle down in his old home world. His father and mother were much the same, only a little older. What was new in them was a certain uneasiness and occasional discord which they're used not to be and which, as Nicholas soon found out, was due to the bad state of their affairs. Sonja was nearly twenty. She had stopped growing prettier and promised nothing more than she was already, but that was enough. She exhaled happiness and love from the time Nicholas returned and the faithful, unalterable love of this girl had a gladdening effect on him. Petja and Natasha surprised Nicholas most. Petja was a big, handsome boy of thirteen, merry, witty and mischievous with a voice that was already breaking. As for Natasha, for a long while Nicholas wondered and laughed whenever he looked at her. You are not the same at all, he said. How am I uglier? On the contrary, but what dignity a princess? She whispered to her, yes, yes, yes, cried Natasha joyfully. She told him about her romance with Prince Andrew and of his visit to Otradno and showed him his last letter. Well, are you glad, Natasha asked, I'm so tranquil and happy now. Very glad answered Nicholas. He's an excellent fellow. And are you very much in love? How shall I put it? replied Natasha. I was in love with Boris, with my teacher and with Denisov, but this is quite different. I feel at peace and settled. I know that no better man than he exists and I am calm and contented now, not at all as before. Nicholas expressed his disapproval of the postponement of the marriage for a year, but Natasha attacked her brother with exasperation, proving to him that it could not be otherwise and that it would be a bad thing to enter a family against the father's will and that she herself wished it so. You don't at all understand, she said. Nicholas was silent and agreed with her. Her brother often wondered as he looked at her. She did not seem at all like a girl in love and parted from her affianced husband. She was even tempered and calm and quite as cheerful as of old. This amazed Nicholas and even made him regard Borkonsky's courtship skeptically. He could not believe that her fate was sealed, especially as he had not seen her with Prince Andrew. It always seemed to him that there was something not quite right about this intended marriage. Why this delay? Why no betrothal, he thought? Once when he had touched on this topic with his mother, he discovered to his surprise and somewhat to his satisfaction that in the depths of her soul she too had doubts about this marriage. You see he writes that she, showing her son a letter of Prince Andrews, with that latent grudge a mother always has in regard to her daughter's future married happiness. He writes that he won't come before December. What can be keeping him? Illness probably. His health is very delicate. Don't tell Natasha. And don't attach importance to her being so bright, that is because she's living through the last days of her girlhood, but I know what she's like every time we receive a letter from him. However, God grant that everything turns out well. She always ended with these words. He is an excellent man. End of chapter 1, Recording by Eva Harnick, Pontevedra, Florida. War and Peace, book 7, chapter 2, read for LibriVox.org by Wetcoast. After reaching home, Nicholas was at first serious and even dull. He was worried by the impending necessity of interfering in the stupid business matters for which his mother had called him home. To throw off this burden as quickly as possible, on the third day after his arrival he went angry and scowling and without answering questions as to where he was going, to Metencha's lodge and demanded an account of everything. But what an account of everything might be, Nicholas knew even less than the frightened and bewildered Metencha, the conversation and the examination of the accounts with Metencha did not last long. The village elder, a peasant delegate, and the village clerk who were waiting in the passage heard with fear and delight first the young count's voice roaring and snapping and rising louder and louder and then words of abuse, dreadful words, ejaculated one after the other. Robber, ungrateful wretch, I'll hack the dog to pieces, I'm not my father, robbing us, and so on. Then with no less fear and delight they saw how the young count, red in the face and with bloodshot eyes, dragged Metencha out by the scruff of the neck and applied his foot and knee to his behind with great agility and convenient moments between the words, shouting, be off, never let me see your face here again, you villain. Metencha flew headlong down the six steps and ran away into the shrubbery. This shrubbery was a well-known haven of refuge for culprits at Autredno. Metencha himself, returning tipsy from the town, used to hide there and many of the residents at Autredno hiding from Metencha knew of its protective qualities. Metencha's wife and sisters-in-law thrust their heads and frightened faces out of the door of a room where a bright samovar was boiling and where the steward's high bedstead stood with its patchwork quilt. The young count paid no heed to them, but, breathing hard, passed by with resolute strides and went into the house. The countess, who heard at once from the maids what had happened at the lodge, was calm by the thought that now their affairs would certainly improve, but on the other hand felt anxious as to the effect this excitement might have on her son. She went several times to his door on Tiptoe and listened as he lighted one pipe after another. Next day the old count called his son aside and, with an embarrassed smile, said to him, But you know, my dear boy, it's a pity you got excited. Metencha has told me all about it. I knew, thought Nicholas, that I should never understand anything in this crazy world. You were angry that he had not entered those seven hundred rubles, but they were carried forward and you did not look at the other page. Papa, he is a blaggard and a thief. I know he is. In what I have done, I have done, but if you like, I won't speak to him again. No, my dear boy, the count too felt embarrassed. He knew he had mismanaged his wife's property and was to blame toward his children, but he did not know how to remedy it. No, I beg you to attend to the business. I am old. I… No, Papa, forgive me if I have caused you unpleasantness. I understand it all less than you do. Devil take all these peasants and money-matters in carrying forward from page to page, he thought. He used to understand what a corner and the stakes at cards meant, but carrying forward to another page I don't understand at all, said he to himself. And after that he did not meddle in business affairs, but once the count has called her son and informed him that she had a promissory note from Anna Mikhailovna for two thousand rubles, and asked him what he thought of doing with it. This answered Nicholas, you say it, rest with me. Well, I don't like Anna Mikhailovna and I don't like Boris, but they were our friends and poor. Well, then this, and he tore up the note, and by so doing caused the old countess to weep tears of joy. After that, young Rostov took no further part in any business affairs, but devoted himself with passionate enthusiasm to what was to him a new pursuit, the chase, for which his father kept a large establishment. End of chapter 2, recording by what coast of Vancouver. War and Peace, Book 7, Chapter 3, Recording by Eva Harnick. The weather was already growing wintry, and morning frosts congealed, and earth saturated by autumn rains. The verdure had sickened, and its bright green stood out sharply against the brownish strips of winter rye trodden down by the kettle, and against the pale yellow stubble of the spring buckwheat. The wooded ravines and the corpses, which at the end of August had still been green islands, amid black fields and stubble, had become golden and bright red islands amid the green winter rye. The hares had already half changed their summer coats, the fox cubs were beginning to scatter, and the young wolves were bigger than dogs. It was the best time of the year for the chase. The hunts of that ardent young sportsman Rostov had not merely reached hard winter condition, but were so jaded that at a meeting of the huntsmen it was decided to give them a three days rest, and then, on the 16th of September, to go on a distant expedition, starting from the oak grove, where there was an undisturbed litter of wolf cubs. All that day, the hunts remained at home. It was frosty, and the air was sharp, but toward evening the sky became overcast, and it began to thaw. On the 15th, when young Rostov in his dressing-gown looked out of the window, he saw it was an unsurpassable morning for hunting. It was as if the sky were melting and sinking to the earth without any wind. The only motion in the air was that of the dripping microscopic particles of drizzling mist. The bare twigs in the garden were hung with transparent drops which fell on the freshly fallen leaves. The earth in the kitchen garden looked wet and black and glistened like poppy seed, and at a short distance merged into the dull, moist veil of mist. Nicholas went out into the wet and muddy porch. There was a smell of decaying leaves and of dog. Milka, a black-spotted, broad-hunched bitch with prominent black eyes, got up on seeing her master, stretched her hind legs, laid down like a hair, and then suddenly jumped up and licked him right on his nose and mustache. Another borsoy, a dog catching sight of his master from the garden pass, arched his back, and rushing headlong toward the porch, with lifted tail, began rubbing himself against his legs. Ohoy came at that moment, that inimitable huntsman's call, which unites the deepest bass with the shrillest tenor, and round the corner came Daniel, the head huntsman and head kennelman, a gray, wrinkled old man with hair cut straight over his forehead, Ukrainian fashion, a long bent whip in his hand, and that look of independence and scorn of everything that is only seen in huntsman. He doffed his Sir Cassian cap to his master and looked at him scornfully. This scorn was not offensive to his master. Nicholas knew that this Daniel, disdainful of everybody and who considered himself above them, was all the same, his self and huntsman. Daniel Nicholas said timidly, conscious at the sight of the weather, the hunts and the huntsman, that he was being carried away by that irresistible passion for sport, which makes a man forget all his previous resolutions as a lover forgets in the presence of his mistress. What orders, Your Excellency, said the huntsman in his deep bath, deep as a proto-deacons and horse with hallowing and two flashing black eyes gazed from under his brows at his master who was silent? Can you resist it? Those eyes seemed to be asking. It is a good day for a hunt and a gallop, as Nicholas scratching milk behind the ears. Daniel did not answer, but winked instead. I sent Uwaka down to listen. His baths boomed out after a minute's pause. He says she has moved them into the Otradnoe enclosure. They were howling there. This meant that the she-wolf, about whom they both knew, had moved with her cubs to the Otradnoe cubs, a small place a mile and a half from the house. We ought to go. Don't you think so, said Nicholas. Come to me with Uwaka, as you please. Then put off feeding them. Yes, sir. Five minutes later, Daniel and Uwaka were standing in Nicholas's big study. Though Daniel was not a big man, to see him in a room was like seeing a horse or a bear on the floor among the furniture and surroundings of human life. Daniel himself felt this, and as usual, stood just inside the door, trying to speak softly and not move for fear of breaking something in the master's apartment. And he hastened to say all that was necessary, so as to get from under that ceiling out into the open, under the sky, once more. Having finished his inquiries and extorted from Daniel an opinion that the hunts were fit, Daniel himself wished to go hunting, Nicholas ordered the horses to be saddled. But just as Daniel was about to go, Natasha came in with rapid steps, not having done up her hair or finished dressing, and with her old nurse's big shawl wrapped around her. Petra ran in at the same time. You are going, asked Natasha. I knew you would. Sonja said, you would not go, but I knew that today is the sort of day when you couldn't help going. Yes, we are going, replied Nicholas reluctantly. For today, as he intended to hunt seriously, he did not want to take Natasha and Petra. We are going, but only wolf hunting. It would be dull for you. You know it is my greatest pleasure, said Natasha. It is not fair. You are going by yourself, are having the horses saddled, and said nothing to us about it. No barrier bars, a Russian's boss will go, shouted Petra. But you can't. Mama said, you mustn't, said Nicholas to Natasha. Yes, I will go. I shall certainly go, said Natasha decisively. Daniel tell them to settle for us, and Michael must come with my dogs. She added to the huntsman. It seemed to Daniel irksome and improper to be in a room at all, but to have anything to do with a young lady seemed to him impossible. He cast down his eyes and hurried out as if it were none of his business, careful as he went not to inflict any accidental injury on the young lady. End of Chapter 3, Recording by Eva Harnick, Pontevedra, Florida. WARNED PIECE. Book 7, Chapter 4. Read for LibriVox.org by Roger Maline. The old count, who had always kept up an enormous hunting establishment, but had now handed it all completely over to his son's care, being in very good spirits on this 15th of September, prepared to go out with the others. In an hour's time, the whole hunting party was at the porch. Nicholas, with a stern and serious air, which showed that now was no time for attending to trifles, went past Natasha and Petia, who were trying to tell him something. He had a look at all the details of the hunt, sent a pack of hounds and huntsmen on ahead to find the quarry, mounted his chestnut donuts, and whistling to his own leash of bourgeois set off across the threshing ground to a field leading to the atrodno wood. The old count's horse, a sorrel gelding called Vifianca, was led by the groom in attendance on him, while the count himself was to drive in a small trap straight to a spot reserved for him. They were taking 54 hounds, with six hunt attendants and whippers in. Besides the family, there were eight bourgeois kennelmen and more than 40 bourgeois, so that with the bourgeois on the leash belonging to members of the family, there were about 130 dogs and 20 horsemen. Each dog knew its master and its call. Each man in the hunt knew his business, his place, what he had to do. As soon as they had passed the fence, they all spread out evenly and quietly, without noise or talk, along the road and field leading to the atrodno covert. The horses stepped over the field as over a thick carpet, now and then splashing into puddles as they crossed a road. The misty sky still seemed to descend evenly and imperceptibly toward the earth. The air was still warm and silent. Occasionally, the whistle of a huntsman, the snort of a horse, the crack of a whip, or the whine of a straggling hound could be heard. When they had gone a little less than a mile, five more riders with dogs appeared out of the mist, approaching the Rostovs. In front wrote a fresh-looking, handsome old man with a large gray mustache. "'Good morning, uncle,' said Nicholas, when the old man drew near. "'That's it, come on, I was sure of it,' began uncle. He was a distant relative of the Rostovs, a man of small means and their neighbor. I knew you wouldn't be able to resist it and it's a good thing you're going. That's it, come on,' this was uncle's favorite expression. Take the covert at once, for my Gurchick says the Elagans are at Korniki with their hounds. That's it, come on, they'll take the cubs from under your very nose. That's where I'm going. Shall we join up our packs?' asked Nicholas. The hounds were joined into one pack and uncle and Nicholas rode on side by side. Natasha, muffled up in shawls which did not hide her eager face and shining eyes, galloped up to them. She was followed by Petia, who always kept close to her, by Michael, a huntsman, and by a groom appointed to look after her. Petia, who was laughing, whipped and pulled at his horse. Natasha sat easily and confidently on her blacker abchick and reigned him in without effort with a firm hand. Uncle looked round disapprovingly at Petia and Natasha. He did not like to combine frivolity with the serious business of hunting. Good morning, uncle, we are going too, shouted Petia. Good morning, good morning, but don't go overriding the hounds, said uncle sternly. Nicholas, what a fine dog Trinilla is. He knew me, said Natasha, referring to her favorite hound. In the first place, Trinilla is not a dog, but a harrier, thought Nicholas, and looked sternly at his sister, trying to make her feel the distance that ought to separate them at that moment. Natasha understood it. You mustn't think we'll be in any one's way, uncle, she said. We'll go to our places and won't budge. A good thing, too, little Countess, said uncle, only mind you don't fall off your horse, he added, because that's it, come on, you've nothing to hold on to. The oasis of the Atradno covert came in sight a few hundred yards off. The huntsman were already nearing it. Rostov, having finally settled with uncle, where they should sit on the hounds, and having shown Natasha where she was to stand, a spot where nothing could possibly run out, went round above the ravine. Well, nephew, you're going for a big wolf, said uncle, mind and don't let her slip. That says may happen, answered Rostov. Carey, here, he shouted, answering uncle's remark by his call to his bourgeois. Carey was a shaggy old dog with a hanging jowl, famous for having tackled a big wolf unaided. They all took up their places. The old Count, knowing his son's ardor in the hunt, hurried so as not to be late, and the huntsman had not yet reached their places when Count Ilyurostov, cheerful, flushed, and with quivering cheeks, drove up with his black horses over the winter rye to the place reserved for him where a wolf might come out. Having straightened his coat and fastened on his hunting knives and horn, he mounted his good, sleek, well-fed, and comfortable horse, Vifyanka, which was turning gray like himself. His horses and trap were sent home. Count Ilyurostov, though not at heart a keen sportsman, knew the rules of the hunt well, and rode to the bushy edge of the road where he was to stand, arranged his reins, settling himself in the saddle, and feeling that he was ready, looked about with a smile. Beside him was Simon Checkmar, his personal attendant, an old horseman now somewhat stiff in the saddle. Checkmar held in leash three formidable wolfhounds who had, however, grown fat like their master and his horse. Two wise old dogs lay down unleashed. Some hundred paces farther along the edge of the wood it stood Mitka, the Count's other groom, a daring horseman and keen rider to hounds. Before the hunt, by old custom, the Count had drunk a silver cup full of Muld Brandy, taken a snack and washed it down with half a bottle of his favorite Bordeaux. He was somewhat flushed with the wine and the drive. His eyes were rather moist and glittered more than usual, and as he sat in his saddle, wrapped up in his fur coat, he looked like a child taken out for an outing. The thin, hollow-cheeked Checkmar, having got everything ready, kept glancing at his master with whom he had lived in the best of terms for thirty years, and understanding the mood he was in, expected a pleasant chat. A third person rode up circumspectly through the wood. It was plain that he had had a lesson and stopped behind the Count. This person was a gray-bearded old man in a woman's cloak with a tall-peaked cap on his head. He was the buffoon who went by a woman's name, Nastasya Ivanovna. Well, Nastasya Ivanovna, whispered the Count, winking at him. If you scare away the beast, Daniel will give it you. I know a thing or two myself, said Nastasya Ivanovna. Hush, whispered the Count, and turned to Simon. Have you seen the young Countess? He asked. Where is she? With young Count Peter, by the jar of ranked grass, answered Simon, smiling. Though she's a lady, she's very fond of hunting. And you're surprised at the way she rides, Simon. Eh? said the Count. She's as good as many a man. Of course, it's marvelous, so bold, so easy. And Nicholas, where is he? By the Lyodov upland, isn't he? Yes, sir, he knows where to stand. He understands the matter so well that Daniel and I are often quite astounded, said Simon, well knowing what would please his master. Rides well, eh? And how well he looks on his horse, eh? A perfect picture. How he chased a fox out of the ranked grass by the Zavarzinks thicket the other day. Leaped a fearful place. What a sight when they rushed from the covert. The horse worth a thousand rubles and the rider beyond all price. Yes, one would have to search far to find another as smart. To search far, repeated the Count, evidently sorry Simon had not said more. To search far, he said, turning back the skirt of his coat to get it a snuff box. The other day when he came out from mass in full uniform, Michael Sidorich, Simon did not finish, for on the still air he had distinctly caught the music of the hunt with only two or three hounds giving tongue. He bent down his head and listened, shaking a warning finger at his master. They are on the scent of the cubs, he whispered, straight to the leot of uplands. The Count, forgetting to smooth out the smile on his face, looked into the distance, straight before him, down the narrow open space, holding the snuff box in his hand, but not taking any. After the cry of the hounds came the deep tones of the wolf call from Daniel's hunting horn. The pack joined the first three hounds and they could be heard in full cry with that peculiar lift in the note that indicates that they are after a wolf. The whippers in no longer set on the hounds, but changed to the cry of Uli Uliu and above the others rose Daniel's voice, now a deep bass, now piercingly shrill. His voice seemed to fill the whole wood and carried far beyond out into the open field. After listening a few moments in silence, the Count and his attendant convinced themselves that the hounds had separated into two packs. The sound of the larger pack, eagerly giving tongue, began to die away in the distance. The other pack rushed by the wood past the count and it was with this that Daniel's voice was heard calling Uli Uliu. The sounds of both packs mingled and broke apart again, but both were becoming more distant. Simon sighed and stooped to straighten the leash a young bourgeois had entangled. The Count too sighed and noticed the snuff box in his hand, opened it and took a pinch. Back cried Simon to a bourgeois that was pushing forward out of the wood. The Count started and dropped the snuff box. Nastasia Ivanovna dismounted to pick it up. The Count and Simon were looking at him. Then unexpectedly, as often happens, the sound of the hunt suddenly approached as if the sounds in full cry and Daniel Uli Uliuing were just in front of them. The Count turned and saw on his right Mitka staring at him with eyes starting out of his head, raising his cap and pointing before him to the other side. Look out, he shouted in a voice plainly showing that he had long fretted to utter that word and letting the bourgeois slip, he galloped toward the Count. The Count and Simon galloped out of the wood and saw on their left a wolf, which softly swaying from side to side was coming at a quiet lope farther to the left to the very place where they were standing. The angry bourgeois whined and getting free of the leash rushed past the horse's feet at the wolf. The wolf paused, turned its heavy forehead toward the dogs awkwardly, like a man suffering from the Quincy, and still slightly swaying from side to side gave a couple of leaps and with a swish of its tail disappeared into the skirt of the wood. At the same instant, with a cry like a whale, first one hound, then another, and then another, sprang helter-skelter from the wood opposite and the whole pack rushed across the field toward the very spot where the wolf had disappeared. The hazel bushes parted behind the hounds and Daniel's chestnut horse appeared, dark with sweat. On its long back sat Daniel, hunched forward, capless, his dishelled gray hair hanging over his flushed, perspiring face. Uli-uli-uli-uli-oo, uli-uli-oo, he cried. When he caught sight of the Count, his eyes flashed lightning. Last you, he shouted, holding up his whip threateningly at the Count. You've let the wolf go. What sportsman, and as if scorning to say more to the frightened and shame-faced Count, he lashed the heaving flanks of his sweating chestnut gilding with all the anger the Count had aroused and flew off after the hounds. The Count, like a punished schoolboy, looked round, trying by a smile to win Simon's sympathy for his plight. But Simon was no longer there. He was galloping round by the bushes while the field was coming up on both sides, all trying to head the wolf, but it vanished into the wood before they could do so. End of chapter four, recording by Roger Maline. War and Peace, book seven, chapter five, read for LibriVox.org by Roger Maline. Nicholas Rostov, meanwhile, remained at his post, waiting for the wolf. By the way the hunt approached and receded, by the cries of the dogs whose notes were familiar to him, by the way the voices of the huntsmen approached, receded, and rose, he realized what was happening at the copes. He knew that young and old wolves were there, that the hounds had separated into two packs that somewhere a wolf was being chased and that something had gone wrong. He expected the wolf to come his way at any moment. He made thousands of different conjectures as to where and from what side the beast would come and how he would set upon it. Hope alternated with despair. Several times he addressed a prayer to God that the wolf should come his way. He prayed with that passionate and shamed face feeling with which men pray at moments of great excitement arising from trivial causes. What would it be to thee to do this for me? He said to God, I know thou art great and that it is a sin to ask this of thee, but for God's sake do let the old wolf come my way and let Keray spring at it inside of uncle who is watching from over there and sees it by the throat in a death grip. A thousand times during that half hour, Rostov cast eager and restless glances over the edge of the wood with the two scraggie oaks rising above the aspen undergrowth and the gully with its water-worn side and uncle's cap just visible above the bush on his right. No, I shan't have such luck, thought Rostov, yet what wouldn't it be worth? It is not to be. Everywhere, at cards and in war, I am always unlucky. Memories of Osterlitz and of Dolochov flashed rapidly and clearly through his mind. Only once in my life, to get an old wolf, I want only that, thought he, straining eyes and ears and looking to the left and then to the right and listening to the slightest variation of note in the cries of the dogs. Again he looked to the right and saw something running toward him across the deserted field. No, it can't be, thought Rostov, taking a deep breath as a man does at the coming of something long hoped for. The height of happiness was reached and so simply, without warning or noise or display, that Rostov could not believe his eyes and remained in doubt for over a second. The wolf ran forward and jumped heavily over a gully that lay in her path. She was an old animal with a gray back and big reddish belly. She ran without hurry, evidently feeling sure that no one saw her. Rostov, holding his breath, looked round at the bourgeois. They stood or lay, not seeing the wolf or understanding the situation. Old Caret had turned his head and was angrily searching for fleas, bearing his yellow teeth and snapping at his hind legs. "'Uly, uly, uly, uly you,' whispered Rostov, pouting his lips. The bourgeois jumped up, jerking the rings of the leashes and pricking their ears. Caret finished scratching his hind quarters and cocking his ears, got up with quivering tail from its tufts of matted hair hung down. "'Shall I loose them or not?' Nicholas asked himself as the wolf approached him, coming from the coops. Suddenly the wolf's whole physiognomy changed. She shuddered, seeing what she had probably never seen before, human eyes fixed upon her and, turning her head a little toward Rostov, she paused. Back or forward, eh, no matter, forward, the wolf seemed to say to herself, and she moved forward without again looking round and with a quiet, long, easy, yet resolute lop. "'Uly, uly you,' cried Nicholas in a voice not his own, and of its own accord, his good horse darted headlong downhill, leaping over gullies to head off the wolf, and the bourgeois passed it, running faster still. Nicholas did not hear his own cry, nor feel that he was galloping, nor see the bourgeois, nor the ground over which he went. He saw only the wolf, who, increasing her speed, bounded on in the same direction along the hollow. The first to come into view was Milka, with her black markings and powerful quarters gaining upon the wolf. Nearer and nearer, now she was ahead of it, but the wolf turned its head to face her, and instead of putting on speed, as she usually did, Milka suddenly raised her tail and stiffened her forelegs. "'Uly, uly, uly, uly you,' shouted Nicholas. The reddish layubim rushed forward from behind Milka, sprang impetuously at the wolf, and seized it by its hindquarters, but immediately jumped aside in terror. The wolf crouched, gnashed her teeth, and again rose and bounded forward, followed at the distance of a couple of feet by all the bourgeois who did not get any closer to her. "'She'll get away. No, it's impossible,' thought Nicholas, still shouting with a hoarse voice. "'Kare, uly, uly you,' he shouted, looking round for the old bourgeois who was now his only hope. Kare, with all the strength, age had left him, stretched himself to the utmost, and, watching the wolf, galloped heavily aside to intercept it. But the quickness of the wolf's lope and the bourgeois's slower pace made it plain that Kare had miscalculated. Nicholas could already see, not far in front of him, the wood, where the wolf would certainly escape should she reach it. But coming toward him he saw hounds and a huntsman, galloping almost straight at the wolf. There was still hope. Along, yellowish-young bourgeois, one Nicholas did not know, from another leash, rushed impetuously at the wolf from in front and almost knocked her over. But the wolf jumped up more quickly than anyone could have expected, and gnashing her teeth flew at the yellowish bourgeois, which, with a piercing yelp, fell with its head on the ground, bleeding from a gash in its side. "'Kare, old fellow,' wailed Nicholas. Thanks to the delay caused by this crossing of the wolf's path, the old dog, with its felted hair hanging from its thigh, was within five paces of it. As if aware of her danger, the wolf turned her eyes on Kare, tucked her tail yet further between her legs, and increased her speed. But here Nicholas only saw that something happened to Kare. The bourgeois was suddenly on the wolf, and they rolled together down into a gully just in front of them. That instant, when Nicholas saw the wolf struggling in the gully with the dogs, while from under them could be seen her gray hair and outstretched hind leg and her frightened, choking head, with her ears laid back, Kare was pinning her by the throat, was the happiest moment of his life. With his hand on his saddle-bow, he was ready to dismount and stab the wolf when she suddenly thrust her head up from among that mass of dogs, and then her fore paws were on the edge of the gully. She clicked her teeth, Kare no longer had her by the throat, leaped with a movement of her hind legs out of the gully, and having disengaged herself from the dogs, with tail tucked in again, went forward. Kare, his hair bristling and probably bruised or wounded, climbed with difficulty out of the gully. Oh, my God! Why! Nicholas cried in despair. Uncle's huntsman was galloping from the other side across the wolf's path, and his bourgeois once more stopped the animal's advance. She was again hemmed in. Nicholas and his attendant with Uncle and his huntsman were all riding round the wolf, crying, "'Oo-lee-oo-lee-oo!' shouting and preparing to dismount each moment that the wolf crouched back and starting forward again every time she shook herself and moved toward the wood where she would be safe. Already at the beginning of this chase, Daniel, hearing the oo-lee-oo-lee-oo-ing, had rushed out from the wood. He saw Kare seize the wolf and checked his horse, supposing the affair to be over. But when he saw that the horseman did not dismount and that the wolf shook herself and ran for safety, Daniel said his chestnut galloping, not at the wolf, but straight toward the wood, just as Kare had run to cut the animal off. As a result of this, he galloped up to the wolf just when she had stopped a second time by Uncle's bourgeois. Daniel galloped up silently, holding a naked dagger in his left hand and thrashing the laboring sides of his chestnut horse with his whip as if it were a flail. Nicholas neither saw nor heard Daniel until the chestnut, breathing heavily, panted past him and he heard the fall of a body and saw Daniel lying on the wolf's back among the dogs, trying to seize her by the ears. It was evident to the dogs, the hunters, and to the wolf herself that all was now over. The terrified wolf pressed back her ears and tried to rise, but the bourgeois stuck to her. Daniel rose a little, took a step, and with his whole weight, as if lying down to rest, fell on the wolf, seizing her by the ears. Nicholas was about to stab her, but Daniel whispered, don't, we'll gag her, and, changing his position, set his foot on the wolf's neck. A stick was thrust between her jaws and she was fastened with a leash, as if bridled. Her legs were bound together and Daniel rolled her over once or twice from side to side. With happy, exhausted faces, they laid the old wolf, alive, on a shying and snorting horse, and accompanied by the dogs, yelping at her, took her to the place where they were all to meet. The hounds had killed two of the cubs and the bourgeois three. The huntsmen assembled with their booty and their stories and all came to look at the wolf, which, with her broad-browed head hanging down and the bitten stick between her jaws, gazed with great glassy eyes at this crowd of dogs and men surrounding her. When she was touched, she jerked her bound legs and looked wildly, yet simply, at everybody. Old Count Rostov also rode up and touched the wolf. Oh, what a formidable one, said he. A formidable one, eh? He asked Daniel, who was standing near. Yes, Your Excellency, answered Daniel, quickly doffing his cap. The Count remembered the wolf he had let slip and his encounter with Daniel. Ah, but you are a crusty fellow, friend, said the Count. For soul reply, Daniel gave him a shy, childlike, meek and amiable smile. End of chapter five, recording by Roger Maline. War and Peace, book seven, chapter six, read for LibriVox.org by Roger Maline. The Old Count went home and Natasha and Petia promised to return very soon, but as it was still early, the hunt went farther. At midday, they put the hounds into a ravine thickly overgrown with young trees. Nicholas, standing in a fallow field, could see all his whips. Facing him lay a field of winter rye. There his own huntsman stood, alone in a hollow behind a hazel bush. The hounds had scarcely been loosed before Nicholas heard one he knew, Voltorn, giving tongue at intervals. Other hounds joined in, now pausing and now again giving tongue. A moment later he heard a cry from the wooded ravine that a fox had been found, and the whole pack, joining together, rushed along the ravine toward the rye field and away from Nicholas. He saw the whips in their red caps galloping along the edge of the ravine. He even saw the hounds, and was expecting a fox to show itself at any moment in the rye field opposite. The huntsman standing in the hollow moved and loosed his bourgeois, and Nicholas saw a queer, short-legged red fox with a fine brush going hard across the field. The bourgeois bore down on it. Now they drew close to the fox, which began to dodge between the field in sharper and sharper curves, trailing its brush when suddenly a strange white bourgeois dashed in followed by a black one, and everything was in confusion. The bourgeois formed a star-shaped figure, scarcely swaying their bodies, and with tails turned away from the center of the group. Two huntsmen galloped up to the dogs, one in a red cap, the other, a stranger, in a green coat. What's this, thought Nicholas? Where's that huntsman from? He's not Uncle's man. The huntsman got the fox, but stayed there a long time without strapping it to the saddle. Their horses, bridled and with high saddles, stood near them, and there, too, the dogs were lying. The huntsman waved their arms and did something to the fox. Then from that spot came the sound of a horn with the signal agreed on in case of a fight. That's Ilegan's huntsman having a row with our Ivan, said Nicholas's groom. Nicholas sent the man to call Natasha and Petia to him and rode at a foot pace to the place where the whips were getting the hounds together. Several of the field galloped to the spot where the fight was going on. Nicholas dismounted, and with Natasha and Petia, who had ridden up, stopped near the hounds, waiting to see how the matter would end. Out of the bushes came the huntsman who had been fighting and rode toward his young master with the fox tied to his cropper. While still at a distance, he took off his cap and tried to speak respectfully, but he was pale and breathless and his face was angry. One of his eyes was black, but he probably was not even aware of it. What has happened? asked Nicholas. A likely thing, killing a fox our dogs had hunted and it was my gray bitch that caught it. Go to law, indeed. He snatches at the fox. I gave him one with the fox. Here it is in my saddle. Do you want a taste of this? Said the huntsman, pointing to his dagger and probably imagining himself still speaking to his foe. Nicholas, not stopping to talk to the man, asked his sister and Petia to wait for him and rode to the spot where the enemy's, illigan's hunting party was. The victorious huntsman rode off to join the field and there, surrounded by inquiring sympathizers, recounted his exploits. The facts were that illigan, with whom the Rostovs had a quarrel and were at law, hunted over places that belonged by custom to the Rostovs and had now, as if purposely, sent his men to the very woods the Rostovs were hunting and let his man snatch a fox their dogs had chased. Nicholas, though he had never seen illigan with his usual absence of moderation and judgment, hated him cordially from reports of his arbitrariness and violence and regarded him as his bitterest foe. He rode in angry agitation toward him, firmly grasping his whip and fully prepared to take the most resolute and desperate steps to punish his enemy. Hardly had he passed an angle of the wood before a stout gentleman in a beaver cap came riding toward him on a handsome, raven black horse accompanied by two hunt servants. Instead of an enemy, Nicholas found in illigan a stately and courteous gentleman who was particularly anxious to make the young count's acquaintance. Having ridden up to Nicholas, illigan raised his beaver cap and said he much regretted what had occurred and would have the man punished who had allowed himself to seize a fox hunted by someone else's bourgeois. He hoped to become better acquainted with the count and invited him to draw his covert. Natasha, afraid that her brother would do something dreadful, had followed him in some excitement. Seeing the enemy's exchanging friendly greetings, she rode up to them. Illigan lifted his beaver cap still higher to Natasha and said with a pleasant smile that the young countess resembled Diana in her passion for the chase as well as in her beauty of which he had heard much. To expiate his huntsman's offense, Illigan pressed the Rostovs to come to an upland of his about a mile away which he usually kept for himself and which, he said, swarmed with hairs. Nicholas agreed and the hunt now doubled moved on. The way to Illigan's upland was across the fields. The hunt servants fell into line. The masters rode together. Uncle Rostov and Illigan kept stealthily glancing at one another's dogs, trying not to be observed by their companions and searching uneasily for rivals to their own bourgeois. Rostov was particularly struck by the beauty of a small, pure-bread, red-spotted bitch on Illigan's leash, slender but with muscles like steel, a delicate muzzle, and prominent black eyes. He had heard of the swiftness of Illigan's bourgeois and in that beautiful bitch saw a rival to his own milka. In the middle of a sober conversation begun by Illigan about the year's harvest, Nicholas pointed to the red-spotted bitch. A fine little bitch that, said he in a careless tone, is she swift? That one? Yes, she's a good dog. Gets what she's after, answered Illigan indifferently, of the red-spotted bitch Urza, for which, a year before, he had given a neighbor three families of house-serves. So in your parts, too, the harvest is nothing to boast of, Count? He went on, continuing the conversation they had begun, and considering it polite to return the young Count's compliment, Illigan looked at his bourgeois and picked out Milka, who attracted his attention by her breath. That black-spotted one of yours is fine, well-shaped, said he. Yes, she's fast enough, replied Nicholas, and thought, if only a full-grown hair would cross the field now, I'd show you what sort of bourgeois she is. And turning to his groom, he said he would give a ruble to anyone who found a hair. I don't understand, continued Illigan, how some sportsman can be so jealous about game and dogs. For myself, I can tell you, Count, I enjoy riding in companies such as this. What could be better? He again raised his cap to Natasha. But as for counting skins and what one takes, I don't care about that. Of course not. Or being upset because someone else's bourgeois and not mine catches something. All I care about is to enjoy seeing the chase. Is it not so, Count? For I consider that Atu came the long-drawn cry of one of the bourgeois whippers-in who had halted. He stood on a knoll in the stubble, holding his whip aloft, and again repeated his long-drawn cry, Atu, this call and the uplifted whip meant that he saw a sitting hair. Ah, he has found one, I think, said Illigan carelessly. Yes, we must ride up. Shall we both course it? Answered Nicholas, seeing in Ezra and Uncle's red Rugee two rivals he had never yet had a chance of pitting against his own bourgeois. And suppose they outdo my Milka at once, he thought as he rode with Uncle and Illigan toward the hair. A full-grown one asked Illigan as he approached the whip who had sighted the hair, and not without agitation he looked round and whistled to Urza. And you, Michael Nakanovich, he said, addressing Uncle. The latter was riding with a sullen expression on his face. How can I join in? Why, you're given a village for each of your bourgeois. That's it, come on, yours are worth thousands. Try yours against one another, you two, and I'll look on. Rugee, hey, hey, he shouted. Rugee Ushka, he added, involuntarily by this diminutive expressing his affection and the hopes he placed on this red bourgeois. Natasha saw and felt the agitation the two elderly men and her brother were trying to conceal and was herself excited by it. The huntsman stood halfway up the knoll, holding up his whip, and the gentle folk rode up to him at a foot pace. The hounds that were far off on the horizon turned away from the hair, and the whips, but not the gentle folk, also moved away. All were moving slowly and sedately. How is it pointing? asked Nicholas, riding a hundred paces toward the whip who had sided the hair. But before the whip could reply, the hair, senting the frost coming next morning, was unable to rest and leaped up. The pack on leash rushed downhill in full cry after the hair, and from all sides, the bourgeois that were not on leash darted after the hounds and the hair. All the hunt, who had been moving slowly, shouted, Stop! calling in the hounds while the bourgeois whips were the cry of, Ah, too! galloped across the field, setting the bourgeois on the hair. The tranquil illigan, Nicholas, Natasha, and Uncle, flew, reckless of where and how they went, seeing only the bourgeois and the hair and fearing only to lose sight, even for an instant of the chase. The hair they had started was a strong and swift one. When he jumped up, he did not run at once, but pricked his ears, listening to the shouting and trampling that resounded from all sides at once. He took a dozen bounds, not very quickly, letting the bourgeois gain on him, and finally, having chosen his direction and realized his danger, laid back his ears and rushed off headlong. He had been lying in the stubble, but in front of him was the autumn sowing where the ground was soft. The two bourgeois of the huntsmen who had sighted him, having been the nearest, were the first to see and pursue him, but they had not gone far before illigans red-spotted Urza past them, got within a length, flew at the hair with terrible swiftness, aiming at his cut, and thinking she had seized him, rolled over like a ball. The hair arched his back and bounded off yet more swiftly. From behind Urza rushed the broad-haunched, black-spotted Milka and began rapidly gaining on the hair. Milashka dear, rose Nicholas's triumphant cry. It looked as if Milka would immediately pounce on the hair, but she overtook him and flew past. The hair had squatted. Again the beautiful Urza reached him, but when close to the hair's scut, paused as if measuring the distance, so as not to make a mistake this time, but seize his hind leg. Urza, darling, illigan wailed in a voice unlike his own. Urza did not hearken to his appeal. At the very moment when she would have seized her prey, the hair moved and darted along the balk between the winter eye and the stubble. Again Urza and Milka were abreast, running like a pair of carriage-horses, and began to overtake the hair, but it was easier for the hair to run in the balk and the borzwa to not overtake him so quickly. Ruga, Ruga iushka, that's it, come on! came a third voice just then, and Uncle's red borzwa, straining and curving its back, caught up with the two foremost borzwa, pushed ahead of them, regardless of the terrible strain, put on speed close to the hair, knocked it off the balk onto the rye field, again put on speed still more viciously, sinking to his knees in the muddy field, and all one could see was how, muddying his back, he rolled over with the hair. A ring of borzwa surrounded him. A moment later everyone had drawn up round the crowd of dogs. Only the delighted Uncle dismounted and cut off a pad, shaking the hair for the blood to drip off, and anxiously glancing round with restless eyes, while his arms and legs twitched. He spoke without himself knowing whom to or what about. That's it, come on, what a dog! There it has beaten them all, the thousand rubble as well as the one rubble borzwa. That's it, come on! said he, panting and looking wrathfully around as if he were abusing someone, as if they were all his enemies and had insulted him, and only now had he at last succeeded in justifying himself. There are your thousand rubble ones! That's it, come on! Ruge, here's a pad for you, he said, throwing down the hair's muddy pad. You've deserved it, that's it, come on! She'd tired herself out, she'd run it down three times by herself, said Nicholas, also not listening to any one, and regardless of whether he were heard or not. But what is there in running across it like that, said Illigan's groom? Once she had missed it and turned it away, any mongrel could take it, Illigan was saying at the same time, breathless from his gallop and his excitement. At the same moment Natasha, without drawing breath, screamed joyously, ecstatically, and so piercingly that it set everyone's ear tingling. By that shriek she expressed what the others expressed by all talking at once, and it was so strange that she must herself have been ashamed of so wild a cry, and everyone else would have been amazed at it at any other time. Uncle himself twisted up the hair, threw it neatly and smartly across his horse's back as if by that gesture he meant to rebuke everybody, and with an air of not wishing to speak to anyone, mounted his bay and rode off. The others all followed, dispirited and shame-faced, and only much later were they able to regain their former affectation of indifference. For a long time they continued to look at Red Ruge, who, his arched back spattered with mud and clanking the ring of his leash, walked along just behind Uncle's horse with the serene air of a conqueror. Well, I am like any other dog as long as it's not a question of coursing, but when it is, then look out, his appearance seemed to Nicholas to be saying. When much later Uncle rode up to Nicholas and began talking to him, he felt flattered that after what had happened Uncle Dane to speak to him. End of chapter 6 Recording by Roger Moline War and Peace Book 7, Chapter 7 Read for LibriVox.org by Anna Seymum Toward evening Ilagin took leave of Nicholas, who found that they were so far from home that he accepted Uncle's offer that the hunting party should spend the night in his little village of Mikhailovna. And if you put up at my house, that will be better still. That's it, come on, said Uncle. You see it's damp weather, and you could rest and the little counters could be driven home in a trap. Uncle's offer was accepted. A huntsman was sent to Othadna for a trap, while Nicholas rode with Natasha and Petia to Uncle's house. Some five male domestic serfs, big and little, rushed out to the front porch to meet their master. A score of women's serfs, old and young, as well as children, popped out from the back entrance to have a look at the hunters who were arriving. The presence of Natasha, a woman, a lady, and on horseback, raised the curiosity of the serfs to such a degree that many of them came up to her, stared her in the face, and, unabashed by her presence, made remarks about her as though she were some prodigy on show and not a human being able to hear or understand what was said about her. A rinker, look, she sits sideways. There she sits and her skirt dangles. See, she's got a little hunting horn. Goodness gracious, see her knife. Isn't she a tartar? How is it you didn't go head over heels? Asked the boldest of all, addressing Natasha directly. Uncle dismounted at the porch of his little wooden house which stood in the midst of an overgrown garden, and, after a glance at his retainers, shouted authoritatively that the superfluous ones should take themselves off and that all necessary preparations should be made to receive the guests and the visitors. The serfs all disappeared. Uncle lifted Natasha off her horse and, taking her hand, led her up the rickety wooden steps of the porch. The house, with its bare and plastered log walls, was not over clean. It did not seem that those living in it aimed at keeping it spotless, but neither was it noticeably neglected. In the entry there was a smell of fresh apples and wolf and foxkins hung about. Uncle led the visitors through the anti-room into a small hall with a folding table and red chairs, then into the drawing room with a round birch wood table and a sofa, and finally into his private room where there was a tattered sofa, a worn carpet, and portraits of Suvorov, of the host's father and mother, and of himself in military uniform. The study smelled strongly of tobacco and dogs. Uncle asked his visitors to sit down and make themselves at home, and then went out of the room. Ugai, his back still muddy, came into the room and lay down on the sofa, cleaning himself with his tongue and teeth. Leading from the study was a passage in which a partition with ragged curtains could be seen. From behind this came women's laughter and whispers. Natasha, Nicholas and Petia took off their wraps and sat down on the sofa. Petia, leaning on his elbow, fell asleep at once. Natasha and Nicholas were silent. Their faces glowed. They were hungry and very cheerful. They looked at one another. Now that the hunt was over and they were in the house, Nicholas no longer considered it necessary to show his manly superiority over his sister. Natasha gave him a wink, and now they refrained long from bursting into a peel of ringing laughter even before they had a pretext ready to account for it. After a while uncle came in in a cossack coat, blue trousers, and small top boots. And Natasha felt that this costume, the very one she had regarded with surprise and amusement at Otratne, was just the right thing, and not at all worse than a swallow-tail or frock coat. Uncle too was in high spirits, and far from being offended by the brothers and sisters' laughter. It could never enter his head that they might be laughing at his way of life. He himself joined in the merriment. That's right, young counters. That's it, come on. I never saw anyone like her, said he, offering Nicholas a pipe with a long stem, and with a practised motion of three fingers taking down another that had been cut short. She is ridden all day like a man, and is as fresh as ever. Soon after uncle's reappearance, the door was opened, evidently from the sound, by a barefooted girl, and a stout, rosy, good-looking woman of about forty, with a double chin and full red lips, entered carrying a large loaded tray. With hospitable dignity and cordiality in her glance and in every motion, she looked at the visitors, and with a pleasant smile bowed respectfully. In spite of her exceptional stoutness, which caused her to protrude her chest and stomach and throw back her head, this woman, who was uncle's housekeeper, trod very lightly. She went to the table, sat down the tray, and with her plump white hands definitely took from it the bottles and various hors d'oeuvres and dishes, and arranged them on the table. When she had finished, she stepped aside and stopped at the door with a smile on her face. Here I am, I am she. Now do you understand, uncle? Her expression said to Rostov, how could one help understanding? Not only Nicholas, but even Natasha understood the meaning of his puckered brow and the happy complacent smile that slightly puckered his lips when Anisha Fedrovna entered. On the tray was a bottle of herb wine, different kinds of vodka, pickled mushrooms, rye cakes made with buttermilk, honey in the comb, still meat and sparkling meat, apples, nuts, raw and roasted, and nut and honey sweets. Afterwards, she brought a freshly roasted chicken, ham, preserves made with honey, and preserves made with sugar. All this was the fruit of Anisha Fedrovna's housekeeping, gathered and prepared by her. The smell and taste of it all had a smack of Anisha Fedrovna herself, a savor of juiciness, cleanliness, whiteness, and pleasant smiles. Take this little lady counters, she kept saying, as she offered Natasha first one thing and then another. Natasha ate of everything and thought she'd never seen or eaten such buttermilk cakes, such aromatic jam, such honey and nut sweets, or such a chicken anywhere. Anisha Fedrovna left the room. After supper, over their cherry brandy, Rostov and Ankel talked of past and future hunts, a rugay and ilagans dogs, while Natasha sat upright on the sofa and listened with sparkling eyes. She tried several times to wake Petya that he might eat something, but he only muttered incoherent words without waking up. Natasha felt so light-hearted and happy in these novel surroundings that she only feared the trap would come for her too soon. After a casual pause, such as often occurs when receiving friends for the first time in one's own house, Ankel, answering a thought that was in his visitors' mind, said, This, you see, is how I am finishing my days. Death will come. That's it, come on, nothing will remain. Then why harm anyone? Ankel's face was very significant and even handsome, as he said this. Involuntarily, Rostov recalled all the good he had heard about him from his father and their neighbours. Throughout the whole province, Ankel had the reputation of being the most honorable and disinterested of cranks. They called him in to decide family disputes, chose him as executor, confided secrets to him, elected him to be a justice and to other posts, but he always persistently refused public appointments, passing the autumn and spring in the fields on his bay gilding, sitting at home in winter and lying in his overgrown garden in summer. Why don't you enter the service, Ankel? I did once, but gave it up. I'm not fit for it. That's it, come on, I can't make head or tail of it. And that's for you. I haven't brained enough. Now, hunting is another matter. That's it, come on. Open the door there, he shouted. Why have you shut it? The door at the end of the passage led to the huntsman's room, as they called the room for the hunt's servants. There was a rapid patter of bare feet, and an unseen hand opened the door into the huntsman's room, from which came the clear sounds of a balalaika, on which someone who was evidently a master of the art was playing. Natasha had been listening to those trains for some time, and now went out into the passage to hear better. That's Mitka, my coachman. I've got him a good balalaika. I'm fond of it, said Ankel. It was the custom for Mitka to play the balalaika in the huntsman's room when Ankel returned from the chase. Ankel was fond of such music. How good! Really very good, said Nicholas, with some unintentional superciliousness, as if ashamed to confess that the sounds pleased him very much. Very good, said Natasha reproachfully, noticing her brother's tone. Not very good. It's simply delicious. Just as Ankel's pickled mushrooms, honey, and cherry brandy had seemed to her the best in the world, so also that song, at that moment, seemed to her the acme of musical delight. More! Please more! cried Natasha at the door, as soon as the balalaika seized. Mitka tuned up afresh, and recommenced thrumming the balalaika to the air of my lady, with trills and variations. Ankel sat listening, slightly smiling, with his head on one side. The air was repeated a hundred times. The balalaika was retuned several times, and the same notes were thrummed again, but the listeners did not grow wary of it, and wished to hear it again and again. Anisha Ferofna came in, and lent her portly person against the door-post. You like listening, she said to Natasha, with a smile extremely like Ankel's. That's a good player of ours, she added. He doesn't play that part right, said Ankel suddenly, with an energetic gesture. Here he ought to burst out. That's it, come on, ought to burst out. Do you play then? asked Natasha. Ankel did not answer, but smiled. Anisha, go and see if the strings of my guitar are all right. I haven't touched it for a long time. That's it, come on, I've given it up. Anisha Ferofna, with a light step, willingly went to fulfill her errand, and brought back the guitar. Without looking at anyone, Ankel blew the dust off it, and, tapping the case with his bony fingers, tuned the guitar, and settled himself in his armchair. He took the guitar a little above the fingerboard, arching his left elbow with a somewhat theatrical gesture, and, with a wink at Anisha Ferofna, struck a single chord, pure and sonorous, and then, quietly, smoothly, and confidently, began playing in very slow time. Not my lady, but the well-known song came a maiden down the street. The tune, played with precision, and in exact time, began to thrill in the hearts of Nikolas and Natasha, arousing in them the same kind of sober mirth as radiated from Anisha Ferofna's whole being. Anisha Ferofna flushed, and drawing her kerchief over her face, went laughing out of the room. Ankel continued to play correctly, carefully, with energetic firmness, looking with a changed and inspired expression at the spot where Anisha Ferofna had just stood. Something seemed to be laughing a little on one side of his face, under his grey moustaches, especially as the song grew brisker and the time quicker, and when, here and there, as he rang his fingers over the strings, something seemed to snap. Lovely, lovely, go on, Ankel, go on, shouted Natasha as soon as he had finished. She jumped up and hugged and kissed him. Nikolas, Nikolas, she said, turning to her brother, as if asking him, what did it move me so? Nikolas, too, was greatly pleased by Ankel's playing, and Ankel played the piece over again. Anisha Ferofna's smiling face reappeared in the doorway, and behind hers, other faces. Fetching water, clear and sweet, stopped their maid and I entreat, played Ankel once more, running his fingers skillfully over the strings, then he stopped short and jerked his shoulders. Go on, Ankel dear! Natasha wailed in an imploring tone, as if her life depended on it. Ankel rose, and it was as if there were two men in him. One of them smiled seriously at the merry fellow, while the merry fellow struck a naive and precise attitude, preparatory to her folk dance. Now then, niece, he exclaimed, waving to Natasha, the hand that had just struck a chord. Natasha threw off the shawl from her shoulders, ran forward to face Ankel, and setting her arms akimbo, also made a motion with her shoulders, and struck an attitude. Where, how, and when, had this young countess, educated by an emigre French governess, imbibed from the Russian air she breathed, that spirit, and obtained that manner, which the parichal, or the French shawl dance, would, one would have supposed, long ago, have effaced. But the spirit and the movements were those inevitable and unteachable Russian ones that Ankel had expected of her. As soon as she had struck her pose, and smiled triumphantly, proudly, and with sly merriment, the fear that had at first seized Nicholas and the others that she might not do the right thing was at an end, and they were already admiring her. She did the right thing with such precision, such complete precision, that Anisha Ferovna, who had at once handed her to the handkerchief she needed for the dance, had tears in her eyes, though she laughed as she watched this slim, graceful countess, reared in silks and velvets, and so different from herself, who yet was able to understand all that was in Anisha, and in Anisha's father, and mother, and aunt, and in every Russian man and woman. Well, little countess, that's it, come on, cried Ankel, with a joyous laugh, having finished the dance. Well, don niece, now a fine young fellow must be found as husband for you. That's it, come on. He's chosen already, said Nicholas, smiling. Oh, said Uncle in surprise, looking inquiringly at Natasha, who nodded her head with a happy smile. And such a one, she said, but as soon as she'd said it, a new train of thoughts and feelings arose in her. What did Nicholas smile mean when he said chosen already? Is he glad of it or not? It is as if he thought my Balkansky would not approve of or understand our gaiety, but he would understand it all. Where is he now? she thought, and her face suddenly became serious. But this lasted only a second. Don't dare to think about it, she said to herself, and sat down again smilingly beside Uncle, begging him to play something more. Uncle played another song, and a waltz. Then, after a pause, he cleared his throat and sang his favourite hunting song. As it was growing dark last night, felt the snow so soft and light. Uncle sang as peasants sing, with full and naive conviction that the whole meaning of a song lies in the words, and that the tune comes of itself, and that apart from the words, there is no tune, which exists only to give measure to the words. As a result of this, the unconsidered tune, like the sum of a bird, was extraordinarily good. Natasha was in ecstasy over Uncle singing. She resolved to give up learning the harp, and to play only the guitar. She asked Uncle for his guitar, and at once found the chords of the song. After nine o'clock, two traps and three-mounted men, who had been sent to look for them, arrived to fetch Natasha and Petja. The Count and Countess did not know where they were, and were very anxious at one of the men. Petja was carried out like a log, and laid in the larger of the two traps. Natasha and Nicholas got into the other. Uncle wrapped Natasha up warmly, and took leave of her with quite a new tenderness. He accompanied them on foot as far as the bridge that could not be crossed, so that they had to go round by the fort, and he sent huntsmen to ride in front with lanterns. Good-bye, dear niece, his voice called out of the darkness. Not the voice Natasha had known previously, but the one that had sung, as it was growing dark last night. In the village through which they passed, there were red lights, and a cheerful smell of smoke. What a darling uncle is, said Natasha, when they had come out onto the high road. Yes, returned Nicholas. You're not cold? No, I'm quite, quite all right. I feel so comfortable, answered Natasha, almost perplexed by her feelings. They remained silent a long while. The night was dark and damp. They could not see the horses, but only heard them splashing through the unseen mud. What was passing in that receptive, childlike soul that so eagerly caught and assimilated all the diverse impressions of life? How did they all find place in her? But she was very happy. As they were nearing home, she suddenly struck up the air of as it was growing dark last night. The tune of which she had all the way been trying to get, and had at last caught. Got it, said Nicholas. What were you thinking about just now, Nicholas? Enquired Natasha. They were fond of asking one another that question. I, said Nicholas, trying to remember. Well, you see, first I thought that Rugae, the red hound, was like uncle, and that if he were a man, he would always keep uncle near him, if not for his riding, then for his manner. What a good fellow uncle is, don't you think so? Well, and you? I. Wait a bit, wait. Yes, first I thought that we are driving along, and imagining that we are going home, but that heaven knows where we are really going in the darkness, and that we shall arrive, and suddenly find that we are not in Otatna, but in Fairyland. And then I thought. No, nothing else. I know, I expect you thought of him, said Nicholas, smiling as Natasha knew by the sound of his voice. No, said Natasha, though she had in reality been thinking about Prince Andrew at the same time as of the rest, and of how he would have liked uncle. And then I was saying to myself all the way, how well Anisha carried herself, how well. And Nicholas heard her spontaneous, happy, ringing laughter. And you know, she suddenly said, I know that she'll never again be as happy and tranquil as I am now. Rubbish, nonsense, humbug, exclaimed Nicholas, and he thought, how charming this Natasha of mine is. I have no other friend like her and never shall have. Why should she marry? We might always drive about together. What a darn this Nicholas of mine is, thought Natasha. Ah, there are still lights in the drawing room, she said, pointing to the windows of the house that gleamed invitingly in the moist, velvety darkness of the night. End of Chapter 7 War and Peace, Book 7, Chapter 8, Recording by Eva Harnick Count Ilja Rostov had resigned the position of Marshal of the nobility because it involved him in too much expense, but still his affairs did not improve. Natasha and Nicholas often noticed their parents conferring together anxiously and privately and heard suggestions of selling the fine ancestral Rostov house and a state near Moscow. It was not necessary to entertain so freely as when the count had been Marshal, and life at Odnodno was quieter than in former years, but still the enormous house and its lodges were full of people and more than twenty sat down to table every day. These were all their own people who had settled down in the house almost as members of the family or persons who were it seemed obliged to live in the count's house. Such were Dimler, the musician and his wife, Fogel, the dancing master and his family, Belova, an old maiden lady and inmate of the house and many others such as petters, tutors, the girls former governess and other people who simply found it preferable and more advantageous to live in the count's house than at home. They had not as many visitors as before, but the old habits of life without which the count and countess could not conceive of existence remained unchanged. There was still the hunting establishment, which Nicholas had even enlarged, the same fifty horses and fifteen grooms in the stables, the same expensive presents and dinner parties to the whole district on name days. There were still the count's games of Wist and Boston, at which, spreading out his cards so that everybody could see them, he let himself be plundered of hundreds of rubles every day by his neighbors, who looked upon an opportunity to play a rubber with Count Rostov as a most profitable source of income. The count moved in his affairs as in a huge net, trying not to believe that he was entangled, but becoming more and more so at every step, and feeling too feeble to break the measures or to set to work carefully and patiently to disentangle them. The countess with her loving heart felt that her children were being ruined, that it was not the count's fault, for he could not help being what he was, that though he tried to hide it, he himself suffered from the consciousness of his own and his children's ruin, and she tried to find means of remedying the position. From her feminine point of view, she could see only one solution, namely for Nicholas to marry a rich heiress. She felt this to be their last hope, and that if Nicholas refused the match she had found for him, she would have to abandon the hope of ever getting matters right. This match was with Julie Karagina, the daughter of excellent and virtuous parents, a girl the Rostovs had known from childhood, and who had now become a wealthy heiress through the death of the last of her brothers. The countess had written direct to Julie's mother in Moscow, suggesting a marriage between their children, and had received a favorable answer from her. Karagina had replied that for her part she was agreeable, and everything would depend on her daughter's inclination. She invited Nicholas to come to Moscow. Several times, the countess with tears in her eyes told her son that now both her daughters were settled, her only wish was to see him married. She said she could lie down in her grave peacefully if that were accomplished. Then she told him that she knew of a splendid girl and tried to discover what he thought about marriage. At other times she praised Julie to him and advised him to go to Moscow during the holidays to amuse himself. Nicholas guessed what his mother's remarks were leading to, and during one of these conversations induced her to speak quite frankly. She told him that her only hope of getting their affairs disentangled now lay in his marrying Julie Karagina. But mama, suppose I love the girl who has no fortune, would you expect me to sacrifice my feelings and my honor for the sake of money? He asked his mother, not realizing the cruelty of his question and only wishing to show his noble mindedness. No, you have not understood me, said his mother, not knowing how to justify herself. You have not understood me, Nikolanka. It is your happiness I wish for. She added, feeling that she was telling an untruth and was becoming entangled. She began to cry. Mama, don't cry. Only tell me that you wish it and you know I will give my life anything to put you at ease, said Nicholas. I would sacrifice anything for you, even my feelings. But the countess did not want the question put like that. She did not want a sacrifice from her son. She herself wished to make a sacrifice for him. No, you have not understood me. Don't let us talk about it. She replied, wiping away her tears. Maybe I do love a poor girl, said Nicholas to himself. Am I to sacrifice my feelings and my honor for money? I wonder how Mama could speak so to me. Because Sonja is poor, I must not love her, he said, must not respond to her faceful devoted love. Yet I should certainly be happier with her than with some doll like Julie. I can always sacrifice my feelings for my family's welfare, he said to himself. But I can't coerce my feelings. If I love Sonja, that feeling is for me stronger and higher than all else. Nicholas did not go to Moscow and the countess did not renew the conversation with him about marriage. She saw with Sara, and sometimes with exasperation, symptoms of a growing attachment between her son and the potionless Sonja. Though she blamed herself for it, she could not refrain from grumbling at and worrying Sonja, often pulling her up without reason, addressing her stiffly as my dear, and using the formal you instead of the intimate doll in speaking to her. The kind-hearted countess was the more vexed with Sonja because that poor, dark-eyed niece of hers was so meek, so kind, so devotedly grateful to her benefactors, and so facefully unchangingly and unselfishly in love with Nicholas that there were no grounds for finding fault with her. Nicholas was spending the last of his leave at home. A force letter had come from Prince Andrew from Rome in which he wrote that he would have been on his way back to Russia long ago had not his wound unexpectedly reopened in the warm climate, which obliged him to defer his return till the beginning of the new year. Natasha was still as much in love as had be throated, found the same comfort in that love, and was still as ready to throw herself into all the pleasures of life as before. But, at the end of the four months of their separation, she began to have fits of depression which she could not master. She felt sorry for herself, sorry that she was being wasted all this time, and of no use to anyone, while she felt herself so capable of loving and being loved. Things were not cheerful in the rust of home. End of Chapter 8, Recording by Eva Harnik, Ponte Vedra, Florida War and Peace, Book 7, Chapter 9, Read for LibreVox.org by Anna Simon Christmas came, and except for the ceremonial mass, the Solomon wear some Christmas congratulations from neighbours and servants, and the new dresses everyone put on, there were no special festivities, though the calm frost of 20°C, the dazzling sunshine by day, and the starlight of the winter night seemed to call for some special celebration of the season. On the third day of Christmas week after the midday dinner, all the inmates of the house dispersed to various rooms. It was that dullest time of the day. Nicholas, who had been visiting some neighbours that morning, was asleep on the sitting-room sofa. The old Count was resting in his study. Sonia sat in the drawing-room at the round table, copying a design for embroidery. The Countess was playing Pachance. Natasha Ivanovna, the buffoon, sat with a sad face at the window with two old ladies. Natasha came into the room, went up to Sonia, glanced at what she was doing, and then went up to her mother, and stood without speaking. Why are you wondering about like an outcast? asked her mother. What do you want? Him! I want him! Now, this minute, I want him! said Natasha, with glittering eyes and no sign of a smile. The Countess lifted her head and looked attentively at her daughter. Don't look at me, Mama! Don't look! I shall cry directly. Sit down with me a little, said the Countess. Mama! I want him! Why should I be wasted like this, Mama? Her voice broke, tears gushed from her eyes, and she turned quickly to hide them, and left the room. She passed into the sitting-room, stood there thinking a while, and then went into the maids room. There an old maid-servant was grumbling at a young girl who stood panting, having just run in through the cold from the servants' quarters. Stop playing! There's a time for everything, said the old woman. Let her alone, Conal Trefner, said Natasha. Go, Mavushka, go! Having released Mavushka, Natasha crossed the dancing-hole and went to the vestibule. There an old footman and two young ones were playing cards. They broke off and rose as she entered. What can I do with them? thought Natasha. Oh, Nikita, please go. Where can I send them? Yes, go to the yard and fetch a file, please, a cock, and you, Misha, bring me some oats. Just a few oats, said Misha, cheerfully and readily. Go, go quickly, the old man urged him. And you, Theodore, get me a piece of chalk. On our way past the butler's pantry she told them to set a sum of her, though it was not at all the time for tea. Fokka, the butler, was the most ill-tempered person in the house. Natasha liked to test her power over him. He distrusted the order and asked whether the sum of her was really wanted. Oh, dear, what a young lady, said Fokka, pretending to frown at Natasha. No one in the house sent people about or gave them as much trouble as Natasha did. She could not see people unconcernedly, but had to send them on some errand. She seemed to be trying whether any of them would get angry or sulky with her, but the serfs fulfilled no one's orders so readily as they did hers. What can I do? Where can I go? thought she, as she went slowly along the passage. Natasha Ivanovna, what sort of children shall I have? She asked the buffoon, who was coming toward her in a woman's jacket. Why, fleas, crickets, grasshoppers, answered the buffoon. Oh Lord, oh Lord, it's always the same. Oh, where am I to go? What am I to do with myself? And, tapping with her heels, she ran quickly upstairs to see Vogel and his wife, who lived on the upper story. Two governesses were sitting with the Vogels at a table, on which were plates of raisins, walnuts, and almonds. The governesses were discussing whether it was cheaper to live in Moscow or Odessa. Natasha sat down, listened to their talk with a serious and thoughtful air, and then got up again. The island of Madagascar, she said, Madagascar, she repeated, articulating each syllable distinctly, and not replying to Madame Chos, who asked her what she was saying, she went out of the room. Her brother Petia was upstairs too, with a man in attendance on him, he was preparing fireworks to let off that night. Petia, Petia, she called him, carry me downstairs. Petia ran up and offered her his back. She jumped on it, putting her arms round his neck, and he pranced along with her. No, don't. The island of Madagascar, she said, and jumping off his back, she went downstairs. Having, as it were, reviewed her kingdom, tested her power, and made sure that everyone was submissive, but that all the same it was dull. Natasha betook herself to the ballroom, picked up her guitar, sat down in a dark corner behind a bookcase, and began to run her fingers over the strings in the bass. Picking out a passage she recalled from an opera she'd heard in Petersburg with Prince Andrew. What she drew from the guitar would have had no meaning for other listeners, but in her imagination a whole series of reminiscences arose from those sounds. She sat behind the bookcase, with her eyes fixed on a stream of light, escaping from the pantry door, and listened to herself and pondered. She was in a mood for brooding on the past. Sonja passed through the pantry with a glass in her hand. Natasha glanced at her, and at the crack in the pantry door, and it seemed to her that she remembered the light falling through that crack once before, and Sonja passing with a glass in her hand. Yes, it was exactly the same, thought Natasha. Sonja, what is this? She cried, twang a thick string. Oh, you're there, said Sonja with a start, and came near and listened. I don't know. A storm? She ventured timidly, afraid of being wrong. There! That's just how she started, and just how she came smiling timidly when all this happened before, thought Natasha, and in just the same way I thought there was something lacking in her. No, it's the chorus from the water carrier. Listen! Anatasha sang the air of the chorus so that Sonja should catch it. Where are you going? she asked. To change the water in this glass, I'm just finishing the design. You always find something to do, but I can't, said Natasha. And where's Nicholas? A sleep, I think. Sonja, go and wake him, said Natasha. Tell him I want him to come and sing. She said a while, wondering what the meaning of it all having happened before could be, and without solving this problem, or at all regretting not having done so, she again passed in fancy to the time when she was with him, and he was looking at her with the lover's eyes. Oh, if only he would come quicker! I'm so afraid it will never be. And, worst of all, I'm growing old. That's the thing. There won't then be in me what there is now. But perhaps he'll come today, will come immediately. Perhaps he has come, and is sitting in the drawing-room. Perhaps he came yesterday, and I've forgotten it. She rose, put down the guitar, and went to the drawing-room. All the domestic circle, tutors, governesses, and guests, were already at the tea-table. The servants stood round the table. But Prince Andrew was not there, and life was going on as before. Ah, here she is! said the old count, when he saw Natasha enter. Well, sit down by me. But Natasha stayed by her mother, and glanced round as if looking for something. Mama, she muttered, given to me, given Mama, quickly, quickly! And she again had difficulty in repressing her sobs. She sat down at the table, and listened to the conversation between the elders and Nicholas, who had also come to the table. My God! My God! The same faces, the same talk, Papa holding his cup and blowing in the same way, thought Natasha, feeling with horror a sense of repulsion, rising up in her for the whole household, because they were always the same. After tea, Nicholas, Sonia, and Natasha went to the sitting-room, to their favourite corner, where their most intimate talks always began.