One matter connected with his management sometimes worries Nicholas: his quick temper and his old hussar habit of making free use of his fists. At first he sees nothing reprehensible in this. In the second year of his marriage his view suddenly changes. One summer he sends for the village elder from Bogucharovo, a man who succeeded Dron and is accused of dishonesty. Nicholas questions him on the porch, and immediately after a few replies the sound of cries and blows is heard. At lunch he goes up to his wife, who sits with her head bent over her embroidery, and as usual begins to tell her the morning. He speaks of the elder. Countess Mary turns red, then pale, lips compressed, and gives no reply. Such an insolent scoundrel, he cries, growing hot at the recollection. If he had told me he was drunk. What is the matter with you, Mary? She tries to speak, looks down, her lips pucker. The looks of the plain Countess Mary always improve when she weeps. She never cries from pain or vexation, but from sorrow or pity, and then her radiant eyes acquire an irresistible charm. The moment he takes her hand she can no longer restrain herself. Nicholas, I saw it. He was to blame, but why do you. She covers her face. He flushes crimson, paces the room. He understands what she is weeping about, but cannot at once agree in his heart that what he has regarded from childhood as an everyday event is wrong. Is it sentimentality, old wives' tales, or is she right?
He keeps the hunt, leaves home for a month, reads history in winter, collecting what he calls a serious library and making it a rule to read through all he buys. A duty becomes a habit and a consciousness of being occupied with serious matters. Harmony with his wife grows closer; he daily discovers fresh spiritual treasures in her. Sonya lives in the house. Before the marriage Nicholas told Mary all that had passed, blaming himself and commending Sonya, and asked her to be gentle. Mary thoroughly realises the wrong done, feels herself to blame, imagines her wealth influenced the choice, can find no fault with Sonya, tries to be fond of her, and often feels ill-will she cannot overcome. Once she talks with Natasha. You have read the Gospels a great deal, Natasha says. There is a passage that just fits Sonya. To him that hath shall be given, and from him that hath not shall be taken away. Sonya, Natasha says, is a sterile flower, quite reconciled to her lot, fond not so much of individuals as of the family as a whole, attached like a cat not to the people but to the home. She waits on the old countess, pets the children, renders small services, and all this is unconsciously accepted with insufficient gratitude.
Bald Hills is rebuilt, not on the old prince's scale. The immense house on old stone foundations is of wood, plastered only inside, with bare deal floors and simple birch furniture made by their own serf carpenters. It is spacious, with rooms for house serfs and apartments for visitors. Whole families of Rostovs and Bolkonskis sometimes come with sixteen horses and dozens of servants and stay for months. Four times a year, on name days and birthdays, as many as a hundred visitors gather for a day or two. The rest of the year life pursues its unbroken routine, breakfasts, lunches, dinners, and suppers provided out of the produce of the estate.
