Marriage's Hidden Tensions Surface — War and Peace

It is the eve of St. Nicholas, the fifth of December, 1820. Natasha has been staying at her brother's with her husband and children since early autumn. Pierre went to Petersburg on business for three weeks, as he said, and has remained nearly seven, expected back every minute. Denisov, Nicholas's old friend, now a retired general, is staying too. On the sixth, the name day, the house will be full of visitors, and Nicholas knows he must exchange his Tartar tunic for a tail coat, put on narrow boots, drive to the new church he has built, and talk about elections of the nobility. He considers himself entitled to spend the eve in his usual way. He examines the bailiff's accounts of the Ryazan village belonging to his wife's nephew, writes two business letters, and walks over granaries, cattle yards, and stables. Having taken precautions against the drunkenness expected on a great saint's day, he returns to dinner and, without time for a private talk with his wife, sits down at a long table laid for twenty: his mother, Belova her companion, his wife, three children with governess and tutor, his wife's nephew with his tutor, Sonya, Denisov, Natasha, her three children, their governess, and old Michael Ivanovich, the late prince's architect, still living in retirement at Bald Hills.

Countess Mary, at the other end, concludes from the way he pushes back tumbler and wineglass that he is out of humour, as sometimes happens when he comes straight from the farm. After dinner he sleeps. She listens at the door to his even breathing, seeing in her mind his smooth forehead and moustache as so often in the stillness of the night. Little Andrew shouts from outside: Papa, Mamma is standing here. She turns pale and makes signs. Then through the door Nicholas clears his throat crossly. I cannot get a moment's peace. Mary, is that you? Why did you bring him here? She takes the boy back. Five minutes later three-year-old Natasha, her father's pet, having learned that Papa is asleep, opens the creaking door, rises on tiptoe, and kisses the hand under his head. He turns with a tender smile. Mary whispers that Papa wants to sleep. No, Mamma, he does not want to sleep, the child says with conviction. He is laughing. Nicholas lowers his legs, takes his daughter in his arms, and calls Mary in.

In her absence he gives the little girl a gallop round the room, out of breath, pressed to his heart, and thinks of what she will be like when he is an old man, taking her into society and dancing the mazurka as his father danced Daniel Cooper. Then Mary re-enters: it is he, it is he. Now our Natasha has come to life. You should have seen her ecstasy, and how he caught it for having stayed away so long. Nicholas goes out holding the child by the hand. Countess Mary remains. I should never have believed that one could be so happy, she whispers. A smile lights her face, and at the same time she sighs, and her deep eyes express a quiet sadness, as though through her happiness she felt another sort of happiness unattainable in this life.