WHEN ILAGIN TOOK LEAVE of them in the evening, Nikolay found himself so great a distance from home that he accepted the uncle's invitation to stop hunting and to stay the night at the uncle's little place, Mihailovka.
“And if you all come to me—forward, quick march!” said the uncle, “it would be even better; you see, the weather's damp, you could rest, and the little countess could be driven back in a trap.” The invitation was accepted; a huntsman was sent to Otradnoe for a trap, and Nikolay, Natasha, and Petya rode to the uncle's house.
Five men servants—little and big—ran out on to the front steps to meet their master. Dozens of women, old and big and little, popped out at the back entrance to have a look at the huntsmen as they arrived. The presence of Natasha—a woman, a lady, on horseback—excited the curiosity of the uncle's house-serfs to such a pitch that many of them went up to her, stared her in the face, and, unrestrained by her presence, made remarks about her, as though she were some prodigy on show, not a human being, and not capable of hearing and understanding what was said about her.
“Arinka, look-ée, she sits sideways! Sits on so, while her skirt flies about.… And look at the little horn!”
“Sakes alive! and the knife too.…”
“A regular Tatar woman!”
“How do you manage not to tumble off?” said the forwardest of them, addressing Natasha boldly.
The uncle got off his horse at the steps of his little wooden house, which was shut in by an overgrown garden. Looking from one to another of his household, he shouted peremptorily to those who were not wanted to retire, and for the others to do all that was needed for the reception of his guests.
They all ran off in different directions. The uncle helped Natasha to dismount, and gave her his arm up the shaky, plank steps.
Inside, the house, with boarded, unplastered walls, was not very clean; there was nothing to show that the chief aim of the persons living in it was the removal of every spot, yet there were not signs of neglect. There was a smell of fresh apples in the entry, and the walls were hung with foxskins and wolfskins.
The uncle led his guests through the vestibule into a little hall with a folding-table and red chairs, then into a drawing-room with a round birchwood table and a sofa, and then into his study, with a ragged sofa, a threadbare carpet, and portraits of Suvorov, of his father and mother, and of himself in military uniform. The study smelt strongly of tobacco and dogs. In the study the uncle asked his guests to sit down and make themselves at home, and he left them. Rugay came in, his back still covered with mud, and lay on the sofa, cleaning himself with his tongue and his teeth. There was a corridor leading from the study, and in it they could see a screen with ragged curtains. Behind the screen they heard feminine laughter and whispering. Natasha, Nikolay, and Petya took off their wraps and sat down on the sofa. Petya leaned on his arm and fell asleep at once; Natasha and Nikolay sat without speaking. Their faces were burning; they were very hungry and very cheerful. They looked at one another—now that the hunt was over and they were indoors, Nikolay did not feel called upon to show his masculine superiority over his sister. Natasha winked at her brother; and they could neither of them restrain themselves long, and broke into a ringing laugh before they had time to invent a pretext for their mirth.
After a brief interval, the uncle came in wearing a Cossack coat, blue breeches, and little top-boots. And this very costume, at which Natasha had looked with surprise and amusement when the uncle wore it at Otradnoe, seemed to her now the right costume here, and in no way inferior to frock coats or ordinary jackets. The uncle, too, was in good spirits; far from feeling mortified at the laughter of the brother and sister (he was incapable of imagining that they could be laughing at his mode of life), he joined in their causeless mirth himself.
“Well, this young countess here—forward, quick march!—I have never seen her like!” he said, giving a long pipe to Rostov, while with a practised motion of three fingers he filled another—a short broken one—for himself.
“She's been in the saddle all day—something for a man to boast of—and she's just as fresh as if nothing had happened!”
Soon the door was opened obviously, from the sound, by a barefoot servant-girl, and a stout, red-cheeked, handsome woman of about forty, with a double chin and full red lips, walked in, with a big tray in her hands. With hospitable dignity and cordiality in her eyes and in every gesture, she looked round at the guests, and with a genial smile bowed to them respectfully.
In spite of her exceptional stoutness, which made her hold her head flung back, while her bosom and all her portly person was thrust forward, this woman (the uncle's housekeeper) stepped with extreme lightness. She went to the table, put the tray down, and deftly with her plump, white hands set the bottles and dishes on the table. When she had finished this task she went away, standing for a moment in the doorway with a smile on her face. “Here I am—I am she! Now do you understand the uncle?” her appearance had said to Rostov. Who could fail to understand? Not Nikolay only, but even Natasha understood the uncle now and the significance of his knitted brows, and the happy, complacent smile, which puckered his lips as Anisya Fyodorovna came in. On the tray there were liqueurs, herb-brandy, mushrooms, biscuits of rye flour made with buttermilk, honey in the comb, foaming mead made from honey, apples, nuts raw and nuts baked, and nuts preserved in honey. Then Anisya Fyodorovna brought in preserves made with honey and with sugar, and ham and a chicken that had just been roasted.
All these delicacies were of Anisya Fyodorovna's preparing, cooking or preserving. All seemed to smell and taste, as it were, of Anisya Fyodorovna. All seemed to recall her buxomness, cleanliness, whiteness, and cordial smile.
“A little of this, please, little countess,” she kept saying, as she handed Natasha first one thing, then another. Natasha ate of everything, and it seemed to her that such buttermilk biscuits, such delicious preserves, such nuts in honey, such a chicken, she had never seen nor tasted anywhere. Anisya Fyodorovna withdrew. Rostov and the uncle, as they sipped cherry brandy after supper, talked of hunts past and to come, of Rugay and Ilagin's dogs. Natasha sat upright on the sofa, listening with sparkling eyes. She tried several times to waken Petya, and make him eat something, but he made incoherent replies, evidently in his sleep. Natasha felt so gay, so well content in these new surroundings, that her only fear was that the trap would come too soon for her. After a silence had chanced to fall upon them, as almost always happens when any one receives friends for the first time in his own house, the uncle said, in response to the thought in his guests' minds:
“Yes, so you see how I am finishing my days.… One dies—forward, quick march!—nothing is left. So why sin!”
The uncle's face was full of significance and even beauty as he said this. Rostov could not help recalling as he spoke all the good things he had heard said by his father and the neighbours about him. Through the whole district the uncle had the reputation of being a most generous and disinterested eccentric. He was asked to arbitrate in family quarrels; he was chosen executor; secrets were entrusted to him; he was elected a justice, and asked to fill other similar posts; but he had always persisted in refusing all public appointments, spending the autumn and spring in the fields on his bay horse, the winter sitting at home, and the summer lying in his overgrown garden.
“Why don't you enter the service, uncle?”
“I have been in the service, but I flung it up. I'm not fit for it. I can't make anything of it. That's your affair. I haven't the wit for it. The chase, now, is a very different matter; there it's all forward and quick march! Open the door there!” he shouted. “Why have you shut it?” A door at the end of the corridor (which word the uncle always pronounced collidor, like a peasant) led to the huntsmen's room, as the sitting-room for the huntsmen was called. There was a rapid patter of bare feet, and an unseen hand opened the door into the huntsmen's room. They could then hear distinctly from the corridor the sounds of the balalaika, unmistakably played by a master hand. Natasha had been for some time listening, and now she went out into the corridor to hear the music more clearly.
“That's Mitka, my coachman … I bought him a good balalaika; I'm fond of it,” said the uncle. It was his custom to get Mitka to play the balalaika in the men's room when he came home from the chase. He was fond of hearing that instrument.
“How well he plays! It's really very nice,” said Nikolay, with a certain unconscious superciliousness in his tone, as though he were ashamed to admit he liked this music.
“Very nice?” Natasha said reproachfully, feeling the tone in which her brother had spoken. “It's not nice, but splendid, really!” Just as the uncle's mushrooms and honey and liqueurs had seemed to her the most delicious in the world, this playing struck her at that moment as the very acme of musical expression.
“More, more, please,” said Natasha in the doorway, as soon as the balalaika ceased. Mitka tuned up and began again gallantly twanging away at “My Lady,” with shakes and flourishes. The uncle sat listening with his head on one side, and a slight smile. The air of “My Lady” was repeated a hundred times over. Several times the balalaika was tuned up and the same notes were thrummed again, but the audience did not weary of it, and still longed to hear it again and again. Anisya Fyodorovna came in and stood with her portly person leaning against the doorpost.
“You are pleased to listen!” she said to Natasha, with a smile extra-ordinarily like the uncle's smile. “He does play nicely,” she said.
“That part he never plays right,” the uncle said suddenly with a vigorous gesture. “It ought to be taken more at a run—forward, quick march! … to be played lightly.”
“Why, can you do it?” asked Natasha.
The uncle smiled, and did not answer.
“Just you look, Anisyushka, whether the strings are all right on the guitar, eh? It's a long while since I have handled it. I had quite given it up!”
Anisya Fyodorovna went very readily with her light step to do her master's bidding, and brought him his guitar. Without looking at any one the uncle blew the dust off it, tapped on the case with his bony fingers, tuned it, and settled himself in a low chair. Arching his left elbow with a rather theatrical gesture, he held the guitar above the finger-board, and winking at Anisya Fyodorovna, he played, not the first notes of “My Lady,” but a single pure musical chord, and then smoothly, quietly, but confidently began playing in very slow time the well-known song, “As along the high road.” The air of the song thrilled in Nikolay's and Natasha's hearts in time, in tune with it, with the same sober gaiety—the same gaiety as was manifest in the whole personality of Anisya Fyodorovna. Anisya Fyodorovna flushed, and hiding her face in her kerchief, went laughing out of the room. The uncle still went on playing the song carefully, correctly, and vigorously, gazing with a transformed, inspired face at the spot where Anisya Fyodorovna had stood. Laughter came gradually into his face on one side under his grey moustache, and it grew stronger as the song went on, as the time quickened, and breaks came after a flourish.
“Splendid, splendid, uncle! Again, again!” cried Natasha, as soon as he had finished. She jumped up from her place and kissed and hugged the uncle. “Nikolenka, Nikolenka!” she said, looking round at her brother as though to ask, “What do you say to it?”
Nikolay, too, was much pleased by the uncle's playing. He played the song a second time. The smiling face of Anisya Fyodorovna appeared again in the doorway and other faces behind her.… “For the water from the well, a maiden calls to him to stay!” played the uncle. He made another dexterous flourish and broke off, twitching his shoulders.
“Oh, oh, uncle darling!” wailed Natasha, in a voice as imploring as though her life depended on it. The uncle got up, and there seemed to be two men in him at that moment—one smiled seriously at the antics of the merry player, while the merry player na?vely and carefully executed the steps preliminary to the dance.
“Come, little niece!” cried the uncle, waving to Natasha the hand that had struck the last chord.
Natasha flung off the shawl that had been wrapped round her, ran forward facing the uncle, and setting her arms akimbo, made the movements of her shoulder and waist.
Where, how, when had this young countess, educated by a French émigrée, sucked in with the Russian air she breathed the spirit of that dance? Where had she picked up these movements which the pas de chale would, one might have thought, long ago have eradicated? But the spirit, the motions were those inimitable, unteachable, Russian gestures the uncle had hoped for from her. As soon as she stood up, and smiled that triumphant, proud smile of sly gaiety, the dread that had come on Nikolay and all the spectators at the first moment, the dread that she would not dance it well, was at an end and they were already admiring her.
She danced the dance well, so well indeed, so perfectly, that Anisya Fyodorovna, who handed her at once the kerchief she needed in the dance, had tears in her eyes, though she laughed as she watched that slender, graceful little countess, reared in silk and velvet, belonging to another world than hers, who was yet able to understand all that was in Anisya and her father and her mother and her aunt and every Russian soul.
“Well done, little countess—forward, quick march!” cried the uncle, laughing gleefully as he finished the dance. “Ah, that's a niece to be proud of! She only wants a fine fellow picked out now for her husband,—and then, forward, quick march!”
“One has been picked out already,” said Nikolay, smiling.
“Oh!” said the uncle in surprise, looking inquiringly at Natasha. Natasha nodded her head with a happy smile.
“And such an one!” she said. But as soon as she said it a different, new series of ideas and feelings rose up within her. “What was the meaning of Nikolay's smile when he said: ‘One has been picked out already'? Was he glad of it, or not glad? He seemed to think my Bolkonsky would not approve, would not understand our gaiety now. No, he would quite understand it. Where is he now?” Natasha wondered, and her face became serious at once. But that lasted only one second. “I mustn't think, I mustn't dare to think about that,” she said to herself; and smiling, she sat down again near the uncle, begging him to play them something more.
The uncle played another song and waltz. Then, after a pause, he cleared his throat and began to sing his favourite hunting song:—
“When there fall at evening glow
The first flakes of winter snow.”…
The uncle sang, as peasants sing, in full and naive conviction that in a song the whole value rests in the words, that the tune comes of itself and that a tune apart is nothing, that the tune is only for the sake of the verse. And this gave the uncle's unself-conscious singing a peculiar charm, like the song of birds. Natasha was in ecstasies over the uncle's singing. She made up her mind not to learn the harp any longer, but to play only on the guitar. She asked the uncle for the guitar and at once struck the chords of the song.
At ten o'clock there arrived the wagonette, a trap, and three men on horseback, who had been sent to look for Natasha and Petya. The count and countess did not know where they were and were very anxious, so said one of the men.
Petya was carried out and laid in the wagonette as though he had been a corpse. Natasha and Nikolay got into the trap. The uncle wrapped Natasha up, and said good-bye to her with quite a new tenderness. He accompanied them on foot as far as the bridge which they had to ride round, fording the stream, and bade his huntsmen ride in front with lanterns.
“Farewell, dear little niece!” they heard called in the darkness by his voice, not the one Natasha had been familiar with before, but the voice that had sung “When there fall at evening glow.”
There were red lights in the village they drove through and a cheerful smell of smoke.
“What a darling that uncle is!” said Natasha as they drove out into the highroad.
“Yes,” said Nikolay. “You're not cold?”
“No, I'm very comfortable; very. I am so happy,” said Natasha, positively perplexed at her own well-being. They were silent for a long while.
The night was dark and damp. They could not see the horses, but could only hear them splashing through the unseen mud.
What was passing in that childlike, responsive soul, that so eagerly caught and made its own all the varied impressions of life? How were they all stored away in her heart? But she was very happy. They were getting near home when she suddenly hummed the air of “When there fall at evening glow,” which she had been trying to get all the way, and had only just succeeded in catching.
“Have you caught it?” said Nikolay.
“What are you thinking of just now, Nikolay?” asked Natasha. They were fond of asking each other that question.
“I?” said Nikolay, trying to recall. “Well, you see, at first I was thinking that Rugay, the red dog, is like the uncle, and that if he were a man he would keep uncle always in the house with him, if not for racing, for music he'd keep him anyway. How jolly uncle is! Isn't he? Well, and you?”
“I? Wait a minute; wait a minute! Oh, I was thinking at first that here we are driving and supposing that we are going home, but God knows where we are going in this darkness, and all of a sudden we shall arrive and see we are not at Otradnoe but in fairyland. And then I thought, too … no; nothing more.”
“I know, of course, you thought of him,” said Nikolay, smiling, as Natasha could tell by his voice.
“No,” Natasha answered, though she really had been thinking at the same time of Prince Andrey and how he would like the uncle. “And I keep repeating, too, all the way I keep repeating: how nicely Anisyushka walked; how nicely…” said Natasha. And Nikolay heard her musical, causeless, happy laugh.
“And do you know?” she said suddenly. “I know I shall never be as happy, as peaceful as I am now…”
“What nonsense, idiocy, rubbish!” said Nikolay, and he thought: “What a darling this Natasha of mine is! I have never had, and never shall have, another friend like her. Why should she be married? I could drive like this with her for ever!”
“What a darling this Nikolay of mine is!” Natasha was thinking.
“Ah! Still a light in the drawing-room,” she said, pointing to the windows of their house gleaming attractively in the wet, velvety darkness of the night.
傍晚，当伊拉金和尼古拉告辞的时候，尼古拉呆在离家太远的地方，于是他接受大叔的建议，留下猎人和猎犬，在米哈伊洛夫卡村大叔那里住宿。
“既然您要到我这里来——是件正当的事情，来吧！”大叔说，“当然再好不过了；您看，天气很潮湿，”大叔说，“休息休息吧，让伯爵小姐乘轻便马车回家，”大叔的建议被接受了，派出了一个猎人到奥特拉德诺耶去要一辆轻便马车，尼古拉偕同娜塔莎及彼佳骑马到大叔那里去了。
约莫有五个男仆——有大有小——跑到正门台阶上迎接老爷。几十个妇女，有大有小，有老有少，都从后门台阶探出头来观看驰近的猎人。娜塔莎这个骑马的小姐的出现，使得大叔的家仆的好奇心理达到那种程度，以致其中许多人并不因为她的出现而感到害羞，都向她跟前走去，看看她的眼睛并在她面前评论她，就像评论展览的怪物一样，怪物并不是人，它不会听见，也听不懂他们所说的话语。
“阿琳卡，你瞧，她侧身骑马！她骑在马背上，下摆晃晃荡荡……瞧，还有小角笛哩！”
“我的老天爷，有一把小刀！……”
“瞧，她是鞑靼女人！”
“你怎么没有倒栽葱似地滚下来呢？”一个最大胆的女人直截了当地向娜塔莎转过脸来说。
大叔在他那长满草木的花园里的小木屋的台阶旁下马，朝他的家里人瞥了一眼，用命令的口气叫了一声，要闲人走开，为迎接客人和猎人做好一切必需做的事。
大家都四散奔跑。大叔把娜塔莎从马鞍上抱下来，拉着她的手领她登上不稳的木板台阶。屋子并没有抹灰泥，墙壁是圆木制的，不太清洁，看不出住户存心把屋子弄脏，但并不显得杂乱。门斗里发散出新鲜苹果的气味，到处挂满了狼皮和狐狸皮。
大叔领着客人们经过接待室走进一间摆有折桌和几把红交椅的小厅，继而将他们领进一间摆有桦木圆桌和长沙发的会客室，然后又将他们领进书斋，书斋里放着一张破沙发和旧地毯，墙上挂着苏沃诺夫、主人的双亲和他本人身穿军装的画像。书斋中可以闻到一股强烈的烟草味和猎狗腥味。
在书斋里大叔请客人们就座，让他们像在家里一样安顿下来，他自己便走出去。鲁加伊的脊背还没有弄干净，就走进书斋，躺在沙发上，用舌头和牙齿把身子清理干净。书斋外面有一道走廊，可以看见走廊里的帘幕破旧的屏风。从屏风后面传来妇女的笑声和耳语声。娜塔莎、尼古拉和彼佳都脱下衣服，在长沙发上坐下来。彼佳把臂肘支在扶手上，立刻睡着了。娜塔莎和尼古拉默不作声地坐着。他们的面颊发烧，他们都觉得很饿，也很快活。他们互相瞥了一眼（尼古拉打猎之后认为没有必要在这间房里显示他这个男子比妹妹更加优越）；娜塔莎向她哥哥使了个眼色，二人还来不及想到借口，忍耐不住，很快就哈哈大笑起来。
过了片刻，大叔走了进来，他穿着一件卡萨金男上衣，一条蓝裤子，一双小皮靴。娜塔莎感到，她在奥特拉德诺耶带着惊异和嘲笑的神态曾经看见大叔穿的这一套服装，是一套真正华丽的服装，丝毫不次于常礼服和燕尾服。大叔心里也高兴，兄妹的嘲笑不仅没有使他生气（他连想也不会想到竟有人嘲笑他的生活），而且他自己也附和他们，无缘无故地大笑起来。
“好一个年轻的伯爵小姐——好得很，真行！——我没有见过像她这样的小姐啊！”他说，一边把一杆长烟袋递给罗斯托夫，而把另一杆截短的烟斗习惯地夹在三个指头之间。
“她骑马跑了一天，像个男子大丈夫，若无其事！”
大叔进来之后不久，一个少女把门打开了——凭脚步声就可以明显地猜出她是赤着脚的；一个貌美的约莫四十岁的女人双手捧着一只摆满食物的大托盘走进房里来，她长得很肥，面颊绯红，双下巴，粉红的嘴唇看起来非常肥厚。她的目光和每个步态都流露着诱人的魅力，彬彬有礼和殷勤好客的热情，她环视客人，含着温和的微笑，毕恭毕敬地向他们鞠躬行礼。虽然她非同一般地肥胖，这就迫使她向前隆起胸脯和肚子，把颈向头仰，但是这个妇人（大叔的女管家）走起路来却异常轻快。她走到桌前，把托盘放下，用那双洁白而肥胖的手很灵活地把酒瓶、小菜和各种馔肴摆在桌上，把剩盘拿走。她做完这些事情之后便走开，脸上堆着笑容站在门房，“瞧，我多么捧哩！现在你了解大叔吧？”她的出现仿佛在对罗斯托夫这样说。怎么能够不了解呢，非但罗斯托夫，还有娜塔莎都了解大叔，当阿尼西娅·费奥多罗夫娜走进来时，他们都了解大叔皱起眉头、微微撇起嘴唇流露出幸福的洋洋自得的微笑所包含的意义。托盘里摆着草浸酒、果子露酒、腌蘑菇、乳清黑麦饼、鲜蜜、煮熟的丝丝响着冒气的蜂蜜、苹果、生核桃、炒核桃和蜜饯核桃。之后阿亚尼娅·费奥多罗夫娜端来了蜜糖果子酱、白糖果子酱、火腿、刚刚烤好的母鸡。
这一切均由阿尼西娅·费奥多罗夫娜经营管理、收集和熬制。这一切都发散着香气，都带有阿尼西娅·费奥多罗夫娜的味道。这一切鲜美多汁，白净而清洁，带有欣喜的笑意。
“伯爵小姐，请吃一点吧，”她一面说，一面给娜塔莎递上这，递上那。娜塔莎什么都吃，她仿佛觉得，这种乳清黑麦饼、这种芬芳可口的果酱、蜜饯核桃和烤鸡，她在任何地方从未见过，亦从未吃过。阿尼西娅·费奥多罗夫娜走出去了。罗斯托夫和大叔共饮樱桃酒佐餐，一面侃谈过去和未来的猎事，提及鲁加伊和伊拉金的猎犬。娜塔莎两眼闪闪发光，腰板直挺挺地坐在沙发上，听他们说话。她有几次想把彼佳喊醒，叫他吃点什么东西，可是他说些听不懂的话，看起来他还没有睡醒。在这个新环境中，娜塔莎心中觉得很快活，很舒畅，她只是害怕那辆轻便马车会过早地开来接她。就像人们在自己家中首次接待友人时常有的情形那样，在偶尔一阵沉默之后，大叔为回答客人们心中想问的话，便这样说：
“瞧，我就这么活上一辈子……人一寿终正寝——正常的事情，行啦？——什么都化为乌有。干嘛要作孽！”
当大叔说这些话的时候，他的面部表情意味深长，甚至动人。罗斯托夫这时不禁想起他从父亲和邻人人那里听到有关大叔的好评。大叔在全省范围内享有最高尚最无私的怪人的美名。有人请他评判家中事，请他做个遗嘱执行人，把秘密讲给他听，推选他担任审判官或其他职务，但他总要坚决拒绝公务，秋季与春季他骑着自己那匹淡栗色骟马在田野里消磨时光，冬季在家中歇息，夏季在草木茂盛的花园中乘凉。
“大叔，您为什么不在政府里供职呢？”
“我做过工作，后来不干了。不中用了，实在是这么回事，算啦，什么事情我也弄不明白。这都是你们的事情，我不够聪明。至于说打猎，那就不同了，这是正当的事情，可以去干！请您开开门吧，”他喊了一声，“您为什么关起门来了？”走廊（大汉称之为走廊）末端的一扇门通向侍候地主狩猎的单身仆人住所，即所谓猎人的仆人住所。可以听见一双赤脚仓促地啪嗒啪嗒地走动起来，一只看不见的手打开了通往仆人住所的门。从走廊里开始清晰地听见巴拉莱卡琴声，显而易见，是个什么能手在弹奏。娜塔莎静听琴声已经听了很久，现在她走到走廊上，以便听得更清晰。
“这是我的马车夫米季卡……我替他买了一把挺好的巴拉莱卡琴，我很喜欢听。”大叔说。大叔有个这样的规矩：他从狩猎归来时，叫米季卡在单身仆人住所里弹奏巴拉莱卡琴。
大叔爱听这种音乐。
“弹得多么好啊！真是太棒了”尼古拉带着几分不自觉的轻蔑的口气说，仿佛他不好意思承认，他觉得这种琴声好听。
“什么太棒呀？”娜塔莎意识到哥哥说话的口气，便带着责备的意味说。“并不是太棒，而是富有怎样的魅力啊！”她觉得大叔的腌磨菇、蜂蜜和果子酒是举世最可口的食品，她也觉得这支曲子在这个时刻是音乐魅力的顶峰。
“请您再弹一曲吧。”巴拉莱卡琴声一停止，娜塔莎就对着那扇门这样说。米季卡把弦调准，又铮铮地奏起芭勒娘舞曲，带有一串连续的滑音和变奏。大叔坐在那里，侧起脑袋听着，他脸上微露笑意。芭勒娘舞曲的旋律重复了百来次。一连调了几次琴弦，又听到悠扬悦耳的琴声，听众不感到厌倦，只想一次又一次地听他弹奏。阿西娅·费奥多罗夫娜走进来，把那肥胖的身躯靠在门楣上。
“请问您想听吗？”她含着微笑（酷似大叔的微笑）对娜塔莎说。“他在我们这里弹得最出色。”她说。
“这一段他弹得不对头，”大叔忽然间做出有力的手势说，“这一段要弹出一阵阵爆发的声音——真是如此——要弹出一阵阵爆发的声音。”
“难道您会弹琴吗？”娜塔莎问道。大叔没有作答，微微一笑。
“阿尼秀什卡①，你看看那把吉他的琴弦还好吗？隔了好久没有摸它了——真是如此！——荒废了。”
①阿尼秀什卡是阿尼西娅的爱称。
阿尼西娅·费奥多罗夫娜迈着轻盈的脚步，乐意地走去完成主人吩咐她做的事情，她把吉他拿来了。
大叔不看任何人，吹掉吉他上的灰尘，用那瘦骨嶙峋的手指敲了敲琴面，调准琴弦，坐在安乐椅上，纠正姿势。接着他摆出一点舞台姿势，略微向前伸出左手肘弯，握住吉他琴颈稍高的地方，向阿尼西娅·费奥多罗夫娜使个眼色，开始不弹芭勒娘舞曲，先奏一声清脆而嘹亮的和弦，之后合乎节奏地悠闲自得地然而刚健有力地用那极慢的速度弹奏一支著名的曲子《在大街上》。含着庄重而愉快的节拍（阿尼西娅·费奥多罗夫娜的整个身心都洋溢着这种喜悦），尼古拉和娜塔莎心中开始应声合唱这支歌曲的调子。阿西尼娅·费奥多罗夫娜脸红起来，用手绢捂着，笑嘻嘻地从房里出去。大叔认真严肃地刚健有力、音调纯正地弹奏这支歌曲，他以变得热情洋溢的目光望着阿尼西娅·费奥多罗夫娜离开的那个地方。他脸上微微发笑，尤其是在弹得起劲，拍子逐渐加快，在弹奏一串连续的滑音的地方突然中断的时候，从他那斑白胡子的一边流露出更加得意的笑容。
“好极了，好极了，大叔，再来一个，再来一个！”他刚刚奏完，娜塔莎就大声喊道。她从座位上跳起来，拥抱大叔，吻吻他，“尼古连卡，尼古连卡！”她一面说，一面回头望望哥哥，好像在问他：这是怎么回事啊？
尼古拉也很喜欢大叔弹琴。大叔第二次弹奏这支曲子。阿尼西娅·费奥多罗夫娜的笑脸又在门口出现了，她后面还露出另外几张面孔……他弹奏着……汲那清凉的泉水，姑娘喊一声“你等一等！”他又灵巧地奏出一串连续的滑音，之后猝然停止，耸耸肩膀。
“喂，喂，亲爱的，大叔。”娜塔莎用那哀求的嗓音哼哼起来，仿佛她的生命以此为转移。大叔站起来，仿佛他身上有两个人，其中一人对快活的人露出严肃的微笑，快活的人却很认真地做出一个幼稚的起舞动作。
“喂，侄女！”大叔喊了一声，他向娜塔莎挥了挥那只停奏和弦的手。
娜塔莎扔下披在她身上的头巾，向大叔面前跑去，她双手叉腰，耸耸肩膀，停步了。
这个受过法籍女侨民教育的伯爵小姐在什么地方，什么时候和怎样从她呼吸的俄罗斯空气中吸取了这种精神？而且从中获得了老早就应受到 Pas de chaBle排挤的舞姿？但是这种精神和舞姿正是大叔向她企求的、无可效法的、未经研究的俄罗斯精神和舞姿。她一停下来。就向大夥儿微微一笑，显得庄严而高傲、狡黠而愉快，尼古拉和所有在场的人最初都担心她做得不太对头，但是这种担心消失了，他们都在欣赏她呢。
她做得恰如其分，而且是这样准确，完全准确，以致阿尼西娅·费奥多罗夫娜立即把那条她非用不可的手绢递给她，透过笑声，阿尼西娅的眼泪夺眶而出，她一面瞧着这个苗条的风姿优美的伯爵小姐，而这个小姐显得陌生，她身穿绸缎和丝绒衣裳，而且很有教养，她竟擅长于领会阿尼西娅身上的一切，以及阿尼西娅的父亲、婶婶、大娘，每个俄罗斯人身上的一切。
“嘿，伯爵小姐，——正当的事情，可以去干！”大叔跳完舞以后，面露愉快的笑意说。“啊，侄女呀！只希望给你选个呱呱叫的丈夫，——正当的事情，可以去干。”
“已经选上了。”尼古拉微笑地说。
“哦？”大叔疑惑地望着娜塔莎，惊讶地说。娜塔莎含着幸福的微笑，肯定地点点头。
“还要提他是什么人呀！”她说道。但是她刚刚把话说完，她内心忽然升起了另一种思绪和感情。“当尼古拉说：‘已经选上了'这句话时，他的笑容意味着什么？他对这件事感到高兴，还是不高兴？他好像在想，假如我的博尔孔斯基不明白我们为什么而高兴，就决不会表示赞许的。不，他什么都会明白的。目前他在哪儿呢？”娜塔莎想了想，她的脸色忽然变得严肃起来。但是这种表情只持续了一瞬间。“不去想它，也不敢想这件事。”她含着笑意自言自语地说，随即坐在大叔身旁，请他再弹点什么。
大叔还弹奏一支曲子和华尔兹舞曲，然后就沉默片刻，咳嗽几声清清嗓子，又唱起他爱唱的猎人曲：
……黄昏瑞雪纷纷下……
大叔像老百姓那样唱着，他天真地确信，一支歌的全部意义只在于歌词，曲调会自行产生，而孤单的曲调是不存在的，曲调仅只是为和谐服务而已。因此大叔无意中哼出的这种曲调，如同鸟鸣一般，也是异常好听的。大叔的歌唱使娜塔莎欣喜万分。她决定不再学拉竖琴，只要弹奏吉他就行了。
她向大叔要一把吉他，立刻挑选了这支歌的和弦。
九点多种，一辆敞篷马车、一辆轻便马车来接娜塔莎和彼佳，还派来三个寻找他们的骑马的人。一个被派来的人说，伯爵和伯爵夫人都不知道他们在哪儿，心里焦急不安。
他们像抬死尸一样把彼佳抬到敞篷马车上，娜塔莎和尼古拉乘坐轻便马车。大叔把娜塔莎严严实实地裹起来，怀着前所未有的亲情和她告别。他步行把他们送到桥头，他们要涉水绕过这座不能通行的大桥，他吩咐几个猎人打着灯笼在前面骑行。
“亲爱的侄女，再会！”可以听见他在黑暗中喊了一声，这已不是娜塔莎从前熟悉的声音，而是歌唱《黄昏瑞雪纷纷下》的声音了。
在他们驶过的村庄可以看到红色的灯光，可以闻到令人愉快的炊烟的气味。
“这个大叔多么富有魅力啊！”当他们驶到大路上的时候，娜塔莎说道。
“是啊，”尼古拉说，“你不觉得冷吧？”
“不，我挺好，我挺好。非常畅快，”娜塔莎甚至惶惑不安地说。他们沉默好半晌。
夜晚是黑暗的，潮湿的。看不见马匹，只听见它们在望不见的泥泞路上发出啪嗒啪嗒的响声。
这个童稚的敏感的贪婪地获取和领会各种生活印象的心灵中起了什么变化呢？这一切在这个心灵中是怎样容纳的呢？她快要驶到家门里，忽然唱起《黄昏瑞雪纷纷下》这首歌曲的调子，一路上她都在捕捉这个调子，最后她捕捉到了。
“捕捉到了吗？”尼古拉说。
“尼古连卡，现在你心里在想什么呢？”娜塔莎问道，他们都喜欢互相提出这个问题。
“我吗？”尼古拉回忆时说道，“你要知道，最初我以为鲁加伊这只红毛公犬很像大叔，它若是人，它就会把大叔养在自己身边，不是因为大叔驰骋有素，就是因为他与人和衷共济，不然怎么会把他养在身边。大叔与人相处多么融洽啊！不是吗？喏，你以为怎样？”
“我吗？你别忙，你别忙。对了，起初我认为，我们乘坐马车，心里想到走回家去，可是天知道我们在黑暗中会把车子开到哪里去，忽然我们来到一个地方，我们看见我们不是呆在奥特拉德诺耶，而是置身于仙境。之后我还以为……不，我想要说的就是这些了。”
“我知道，那个时候你一定是在想他。”当娜塔莎凭尼古拉的嗓音认出他时，尼古拉微笑着说。
“不，”娜塔莎回答，虽然她真的想到安德烈公爵，同时也想到他会喜欢大叔。“我总在回想，一路上我不断地回想：阿尼秀什卡非常好，非常好……”娜塔莎说道。尼古拉听见她的响亮的、无缘无故的、显得幸福的笑声。
“你知道，”她忽然说，“我知道我永远不会像现在这样幸福，这样平静。”
“这真是废话、蠢话、无稽之谈，”尼古拉说，心里想了想：“我这个娜塔莎多么富有魅力！我不仅现在，而且将来也不会有像她这样的朋友。她为什么要嫁人？希望我和她永远在一起乘车闲游。”
“这个尼古拉多么可爱！”娜塔莎想道。
“哦！客厅中还有灯光，”她指着住宅的窗户说，在这潮湿的、给人以温柔感觉的黑夜，这几扇窗户反射出美丽的光辉。
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