Anna Mihalovna sat down by his side, with
her own handkerchief wiped the tears from his eyes and from the letter, then
dried her own tears, read the letter, soothed the count, and decided that
before dinner and before tea she would prepare the countess; and after tea,
with God’s help, tell her all. During dinner Anna Mihalovna talked of the rumours
from the war, of dear Nikolay, inquired twice when his last letter had been
received, though she knew perfectly well, and observed that they might well be
getting a letter from him to-day. Every time that the countess began to be
uneasy under these hints and looked in trepidation from the count to Anna
Mihalovna, the latter turned the conversation in the most unnoticeable way to
insignificant subjects. Natasha, who was of all the family the one most gifted
with the faculty of catching the shades of intonations, of glances, and
expressions, had been on the alert from the beginning of dinner, and was
certain that there was some secret between her father and Anna Mihalovna, and
that it had something to do with her brother, and that Anna Mihalovna was paving
the way for it. Natasha knew how easily upset her mother was by any references
to news from Nikolushka, and in spite of all her recklessness she did not
venture at dinner to ask a question. But she was too much excited to eat any
dinner and kept wriggling about on her chair, regardless of the protests of her
governess. After dinner she rushed headlong to overtake Anna Mihalovna, and in
the divan-room dashed at her and flung herself on her neck: “Auntie, darling,
do tell me what it is.”
“Nothing, my
dear.”
“No, darling,
sweet, precious peach, I won’t leave off; I know you know something.”
Anna Mihalovna shook her head. “You are
sharp, my child!” she said.
“A letter from
Nikolinka? I’m sure of it!” cried Natasha, reading an affirmative answer on the
face of Anna Mihalovna.
“But, for
God’s sake, be more careful; you know what a shock it may be to your mamma.”
“I will be, I
will, but tell me about it. You won’t? Well, then, I’ll run and tell her this
minute.”
Anna Mihalovna gave Natasha a brief account
of what was in the letter, on condition that she would not tell a soul.
“On my word of
honour,” said Natasha, crossing herself, “I won’t tell any one,” and she ran at
once to Sonya. “Nikolinka … wounded … a letter …” she proclaimed in gleeful
triumph
“Nikolinka!” was
all Sonya could articulate, instantly turning white. Natasha seeing the effect
of the news of her brother’s wound on Sonya, for the first time felt the
painful aspect of the news.
She rushed at Sonya, hugged her, and began
to cry. “A little wounded, but promoted to be an officer; he’s all right now,
he writes himself,” she said through her tears.
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