Then all at once she remembered the tortures of suspense she had experienced for the last fortnight, and the joy that had lit up her face vanished; she frowned and overwhelmed Pierre with a torrent of reproaches and angry words.
“Yes, it’s all very well for you. You are pleased, you’ve had a good time. … But what about me? You might at least have shown consideration for the children. I am nursing and my milk was spoiled. … Pétya was at death’s door. But you were enjoying yourself. Yes, enjoying …”
Pierre knew he was not to blame, for he could not have come sooner; he knew this outburst was unseemly and would blow over in a minute or two; above all he knew that he himself was bright and happy. He wanted to smile but dared not even think of doing so. He made a piteous, frightened face and bent down.
“I could not, on my honor. But how is Pétya?”
“All right now. Come along! I wonder you’re not ashamed! If only you could see what I was like without you, how I suffered!”
“You are well?”
“Come, come!” she said, not letting go of his arm. And they went to their rooms.
When Nikoláy and his wife came to look for Pierre he was in the nursery holding his baby son, who was again awake, on his huge right palm and dandling him. A blissful bright smile was fixed on the baby’s broad face with its toothless open mouth. The storm was long since over and there was bright, joyous sunshine on Natásha’s face as she gazed tenderly at her husband and child.
“And have you talked everything well over with Prince Fëdor?” she asked.
“Yes, capitally.”
“You see, he holds it up.” (She meant the baby’s head.) “But how he did frighten me … You’ve seen the princess? Is it true she’s in love with that …”
“Yes, just fancy …”
At that moment Nikoláy and Countess Márya came in. Pierre with the baby on his hand stooped, kissed them, and replied to their inquiries. But in spite of much that was interesting and had to be discussed, the baby with the little cap on its unsteady head evidently absorbed all his attention.
“How sweet!” said Countess Márya, looking at and playing with the baby. “Now, Nicolas,” she added, turning to her husband, “I can’t understand how it is you don’t see the charm of these delicious marvels.”
“I don’t and can’t,” replied Nikoláy, looking coldly at the baby. “A lump of flesh. Come along, Pierre!”
“And yet he’s such an affectionate father,” said Countess Márya, vindicating her husband, “but only after they are a year old or so …”
“Now, Pierre nurses them splendidly,” said Natásha. “He says his hand is just made for a baby’s seat. Just look!”
“Only not for this …” Pierre suddenly exclaimed with a laugh, and shifting the baby he gave him to the nurse.
XII
As in every large household, there were at Bald Hills several perfectly distinct worlds which merged into one harmonious whole, though each retained its own peculiarities and made concessions to the others. Every event, joyful or sad, that took place in that house was important to all these worlds, but each had its own special reasons to rejoice or grieve over that occurrence independently of the others.
For instance, Pierre’s return was a joyful and important event and they all felt it to be so.
The servants—the most reliable judges of their masters because they judge not by their conversation or expressions of feeling but by their acts and way of life—were glad of Pierre’s return because they knew that when he was there Count Nikoláy would cease going every day to attend to the estate, and would be in better spirits and temper, and also because they would all receive handsome presents for the holidays.
The children and their governesses were glad of Pierre’s return because no one else drew them into the social life of the household as he did. He alone could play on the clavichord that écossaise (his only piece) to which, as he said, all possible dances could be danced, and they felt sure he had brought presents for them all.
Nikólenka Bolkónski, now a slim lad of fifteen, delicate and intelligent, with curly light-brown hair and beautiful eyes, was delighted because Uncle Pierre as he called him was the object of his rapturous and passionate affection. No one had instilled into him this love for Pierre whom he saw only occasionally. Countess Márya who had brought him up had done her utmost to make him love her husband as she loved him, and little Nikólenka did love his uncle, but loved him with just a shade of contempt. Pierre, however, he adored. He did not want to be an hussar or a Knight of St. George like his uncle Nikoláy; he wanted to be learned, wise, and kind like Pierre. In Pierre’s presence his face always shone with pleasure and he flushed and was breathless when Pierre spoke to him. He did not miss a single word he uttered, and would afterwards, with Dessalles or by himself, recall and reconsider the meaning of everything Pierre had said. Pierre’s past life and his unhappiness prior to 1812 (of which young Nikólenka had formed a vague poetic picture from some words he had overheard), his adventures in Moscow, his captivity, Platón Karatáev (of whom he had heard from Pierre), his love for Natásha (of whom the lad was also particularly fond), and especially Pierre’s friendship with the father whom Nikólenka could not remember—all this made Pierre in his eyes a hero and a saint.
From broken remarks about Natásha and his father, from the emotion with which Pierre spoke of that dead father, and from the careful, reverent tenderness with which Natásha spoke of him, the boy, who was only just beginning to guess what love is, derived the notion
