War and Peace by graf Leo Tolstoy (latest ebook reader .TXT) π
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- Author: graf Leo Tolstoy
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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 of the good work he was doing for his serfs, he would be vexed and reply: βNot in the least; it never entered my head and I wouldnβt do that for their good! Thatβs all poetry and old wivesβ talkβall that doing good to oneβs 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, thatβs all. And to do that, order and strictness are essential.... Thatβs all about it!β said he, clenching his vigorous fist. βAnd fairness, of course,β he added, βfor if the peasant is naked and hungry and has only one miserable horse, he can do no good either for himself or for me.β
And all Nicholas did was fruitfulβprobably just because he refused to allow himself to think that he was doing good to others for virtueβs 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. βHe was a master... the peasantsβ affairs first and then his own. Of course he was not to be trifled with eitherβin a word, he was a real master!β
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 BoguchΓ‘rovo, 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 BoguchΓ‘rovo elder. Countess Mary turned red and then pale, but continued to sit with head bowed and lips compressed and gave her husband no reply.
βSuch an insolent scoundrel!β he cried, growing hot again at the mere recollection of him. βIf he had told me he was drunk and did not see... But what is the matter with you, Mary?β he suddenly asked.
Countess Mary raised her head and tried to speak, but hastily looked down again and her lips puckered.
βWhy, whatever is the matter, my dearest?β
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.
βNicholas, I saw it... he was to blame, but why do you... Nicholas!β 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. βIs it just sentimentality, old wivesβ tales, or is she right?β 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.
βMary,β he said softly, going up to her, βit will never happen again; I give you my word. Never,β he repeated in a trembling voice like a boy asking for forgiveness.
The tears flowed faster still from the countessβ eyes. She took his hand and kissed it.
βNicholas, when did you break your cameo?β she asked to change the subject, looking at his finger on which he wore a ring with a cameo of LaocoΓΆnβs head.
βTodayβit was the same affair. Oh, Mary, donβt remind me of it!β and again he flushed. βI give you my word of honor it shanβt occur again, and let this always be a reminder to me,β 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.
βMary, you must despise me!β he would say. βI deserve it.β
βYou should go, go away at once, if you donβt feel strong enough to control yourself,β 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 seriousnessβleaving 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, readingβa 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 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 childrenβs relations with their mother. The harmony between him and his wife grew closer and closer and he daily discovered fresh spiritual treasures in her.
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