CHRISTMAS came and except for the High Mass, the solemn and wearisome congratulations to neighbours and house-serfs, and the new gowns donned by every one, nothing special happened to mark the holidays, though the still weather with twenty degrees of frost, the dazzling sunshine by day and the bright, starlit sky at night seemed to call for some special celebration of the season.
On the third day of Christmas week, after dinner, all the members of the household had separated and gone to their respective rooms. It was the dullest time of the day. Nikolay, who had been calling on neighbours in the morning, was asleep in the divan-room. The old count was resting in his own room. In the drawing-room Sonya was sitting at a round table copying a design for embroidery. The countess was playing patience. Nastasya Ivanovna, the buffoon, with a dejected countenance, was sitting in the window with two old ladies. Natasha came into the room, went up to Sonya, looked at what she was doing, then went up to her mother and stood there mutely.
“Why are you wandering about like an unquiet spirit?” said her mother. “What do you want?”
“I want him…I want him at once, this minute,” said Natasha, with a gleam in her eyes and no smile on her lips. The countess raised her head and looked intently at her daughter.
“Don't look at me, mamma; don't look at me like that; I shall cry in a minute.”
“Sit down; come and sit by me,” said the countess.
“Mamma, I want him. Why should I be wasting time like this, Mamma?”…Her voice broke, tears gushed into her eyes, and to hide them, she turned quickly and went out of the room. She went into the divan-room, stood there, thought a moment and went to the maids' room. There an old maid-servant was scolding a young girl who had run in breathless from the cold outside.
“Give over playing,” said the old woman; “there is a time for everything.”
“Let her off, Kondratyevna,” said Natasha. “Run along, Mavrusha, run along.”
And after releasing Mavrusha, Natasha crossed the big hall and went to the vestibule. An old footman and two young ones were playing cards. They broke off and rose at the entrance of their young mistress. “What am I to do with them?” Natasha wondered.
“Yes, Nikita, go out, please…Where am I to send him?…Yes, go to the yard and bring me a cock, please; and you, Misha, bring me some oats.”
“Just a few oats, if you please?” said Misha, with cheerful readiness.
“Run along; make haste,” the old man urged him.
“Fyodor, you get me some chalk.”
As she passed the buffet she ordered the samovar, though it was not the right time for it.
The buffet-waiter, Foka, was the most ill-tempered person in the house. Natasha liked to try her power over him. He did not believe in her order, and went to inquire if it were really wanted.
“Ah, you're a nice young lady!” said Foka, pretending to frown at Natasha.
No one in the house sent people on errands and gave the servants so much work as Natasha. She could not see people without wanting to send them for something. She seemed to be trying to see whether one of them would not be cross or sulky with her; but no one's orders were so readily obeyed by the servants as Natasha's. “What am I to do? Where am I to go?” Natasha wondered, strolling slowly along the corridor.
“Nastasya Ivanovna, what will my children be?” she asked the buffoon, who came towards her in his woman's jacket.
“Fleas, and dragon-flies, and grasshoppers,” answered the buffoon.
“My God! my God! always the same. Oh, where am I to go? What am I to do with myself?” And she ran rapidly upstairs, tapping with her shoes, to see Vogel and his wife, who had rooms on the top floor. The two governesses were sitting with the Vogels and on the table were plates of raisins, walnuts, and almonds. The governesses were discussing the question which was the cheaper town to live in, Moscow or Odessa. Natasha sat down, listened to their talk with a serious and dreamy face, and got up. “The island Madagascar,” she said. “Mada-ga-scar,” she repeated, articulating each syllable distinctly; and making no reply to Madame Schoss's inquiry into her meaning, she went out of the room.
Petya, her brother, was upstairs too. He was engaged with his tutor making fireworks to let off that night.
“Petya! Petya!” she shouted to him, “carry me downstairs.” Petya ran to her and offered her his back, and he pranced along with her. “No, enough. The island Madagascar,” she repeated, and jumping off his back she went downstairs.
Having as it were reviewed her kingdom, tried her power, and made sure that all were submissive, but yet that she was dull, Natasha went into the big hall, took up the guitar, and sat down with it in a dark corner behind a bookcase. She began fingering the strings in the bass, picking out a phrase she recalled from an opera she had heard in Petersburg with Prince Andrey. For other listeners the sounds that came from her guitar would have had no sort of meaning, but these sounds called up in her imagination a whole series of reminiscences. She sat behind the bookcase with her eyes fixed on a streak of light that fell from the crack in the pantry door, and listened to herself and recalled the past. She was in the mood for brooding over memories.
Sonya crossed the hall, and went into the pantry with a glass in her hand. Natasha glanced at her through the crack in the pantry door, and it seemed to her that she remembered the light falling through the crack in the pantry door, and Sonya passing with the glass in just the same way. “Yes, and it was exactly the same in every detail,” thought Natasha.
“Sonya, what is this?” called Natasha, twanging the thick cord with her fingers.
“Oh, are you there?” said Sonya starting, and she came up and listened. “I don't know. A storm?” she said timidly, afraid of being wrong.
“Why, she started in just the same way, and came up and smiled the same timid smile when it all happened before,” thought Natasha; “and just in the same way, too.…I thought there was something wanting in her.”
“No, it's the chorus from the ‘Water Carrier,' listen.” And Natasha hummed the air of the chorus, so that Sonya might catch it. “Where were you going?” asked Natasha.
“To change the water in my glass. I am just finishing colouring the design.”
“You always find something to do, but I can't, you know,” said Natasha. “And where's Nikolenka?”
“I think he's asleep.”
“Sonya, do go and wake him,” said Natasha. “Tell him I want him to sing with me.”
She sat a little longer, pondering on what was the meaning of its all having happened before, and not solving that question, and not in the least chagrined at being unable to do so, she passed again in her imagination to the time when she was with him, and he gazed at her with eyes of love.
“Oh, if he would come quickly! I'm so afraid it will never come! And worst of all, I'm getting older, that's the thing. There won't be in me what there is in me now. Perhaps he is coming to-day, will be here immediately. Perhaps he has come, and is sitting there in the drawing-room. Perhaps he did come yesterday, and I have forgotten.” She got up, put down her guitar, and went into the parlour. All their domestic circle, tutors, governesses, and guests were sitting at the tea-table. The servants were standing round the table. But Prince Andrey was not there, and the same old life was still going on.
“Here she is,” said the count, seeing Natasha coming in. “Come, sit by me.” But Natasha stayed by her mother, looking about her as though seeking for something.
“Mamma!” she said. “Give me him, give me him, mamma, quickly, quickly,” and again she could hardly suppress her sobs. She sat down to the table and listened to the talk of the elders and Nikolay, who had come in to tea. “My God, my God, the same people, the same talk, papa holding his cup, and blowing it just the same as always,” thought Natasha, feeling with horror an aversion rising up in her for all her family, because they were always the same.
After tea Nikolay, Sonya, and Natasha went into the divan-room to their favourite corner, where their most intimate talks always began.
圣诞节节期到了，除开敷敷衍衍的午祷，除开邻人和家仆们的庄重而乏味的祝贺，除开人人穿上新衣裳而外，没有任何庆祝圣诞节日的特别的东西，在这无风的零下二十度的严寒中，在这冬夜的星光下，令人感到要庆祝这个节日的强烈愿望。
节日的第三天，午膳后，家里人都各自回到房里。这是一天中最烦闷的时刻。尼古拉早晨骑马到邻居们那里去串门，此时他在摆有沙发的休息室里睡着了。老伯爵在他自己的书斋里休息。索尼娅坐在客厅的一张圆桌旁临摹图案。伯爵夫人按顺序把纸牌摆开。侍从丑角娜斯塔西娅·伊万诺夫娜带着那悲伤的面容和两个老太婆一同坐在窗前。娜塔莎走进了这个房间，她走到索尼娅跟前，看看她在做什么，然后就走到母亲跟前，默不作声地停步了。
“你为什么走来走去呢？像个无家可归的人？”母亲对她说，“你需要什么？”
“我需要他……现在，我立刻需要他，”娜塔莎说道，她的眼睛闪闪发亮，面露笑容。伯爵夫人抬起头，目不转睛地向女儿瞥了一眼。
“妈妈，甭看我，甭看我，我就要哭了。”
“坐下，和我坐在一起呆一会儿吧，”伯爵夫人说。
“妈妈，我需要他。为什么就这样把我憋死，妈妈？……”她的语声猝然中断了，眼泪夺眶而出，为了不让人注意，她飞快地转身，从房里走出去了。她走到摆满沙发的休息室，站了一会，思忖片刻，便向女仆居住的房间走去。那里有一个老女仆对从奴仆那里跑来的婢女嘟嘟嚷嚷，户外的寒气噎得她喘不过气来。
“她要去玩啦，”老太婆说，“无论什么事都各有定时。”
“放开她吧，孔德拉季耶夫娜，”娜塔莎说道。“你去吧，玛夫鲁莎，你去吧。”
娜塔莎准许玛夫鲁莎走开后，便穿过大厅向外间走去。一个老头子和两个年轻的仆人正在打纸牌。当小姐走进房里来，他们停止打牌，站了起来。“我要对他们怎么办呢？”娜塔莎想了想。
“不错，尼基塔，请你走一趟……”（“我要派他去哪里呢？”）“是的，你到仆人那里去把一只公鸡送来；是的，米沙，你去拿点燕麦来。”
“您吩咐我去拿点燕麦吗？”米沙欣喜地、乐意地说。
“你去吧，快点去吧。”老头子再次地吩咐他。
“费奥多尔，你给我拿一段粉笔来。”
她走过小吃部时，吩咐生茶炊，虽然这时分根本不是饮茶的时候。
管理小吃部的福卡是全家中的一个脾气最大的人，娜塔莎喜欢在他身上试试她的权柄。他不相信她的话，便走去问个明白。
“这个小姐可真行！”福卡说，他对娜塔莎虚伪地装出一副愁眉苦脸的样子。
这个家庭中没有一个人像娜塔莎这样派遣出这么多的人，给他们布置这么多的事儿。她不能与己无关地望着这些人而不派遣他们到什么地方去做点什么事。她好像要试试他们之中有什么人会对她发怒，会对她生闷气，但是除开娜塔莎而外，人们并不喜欢执行任何人的命令。“我应该做什么事呢？我应该到哪里去呢？”娜塔莎在走廊中慢慢行走时这样思忖。
“纳斯塔西娅·伊万诺夫娜，我会生下个什么？”她问那个穿着女短棉袄向她迎面走来的侍从丑角。
“你生个跳蚤、蜻蜓、螽斯。”侍从丑角答道。
“我的天呀，我的天呀，老是说些同样的话。哎呀，我去哪里好呢？我怎么办好呢？”她两脚咚咚响地跑到约格尔那里去了，他和妻子住在楼上。有两个家庭女教师坐在约格尔那里，桌上摆着几盘葡萄干、胡桃和杏仁。家庭女教师正在谈论在什么地方居住比较便宜，在莫斯科，还是在敖得萨。娜塔莎坐了一会儿，她带着严肃的若有所思的表情听了听她们谈话，随即站起来。
“马达加斯加岛，”她说道。“马——达——加斯——加。”她把每个音节清晰地重说一遍，她不回答肖斯小姐向她所说的内容，就从房里走出去。
她的弟弟彼佳也在楼上，他和照管小孩的男仆在安放打算在晚上放的烟火。
“彼佳，彼得卡①，”她对着他大声喊道。“把我背下楼去。”彼佳跑到她眼前，把背转向她。她跳到他背上，用手搂住他的颈顶，他一蹦一跳地背着她往前奔跑。“不，用不着背了——马达加斯加岛。”她从他背上跳下来，说道，就走下楼去。
娜塔莎好像走遍了她自己的王国，试了试她的权力，她坚信，大家都服服贴贴，但她还觉得寂寞，于是走到了大厅，她拿起吉他坐在厨子后面昏暗的角落，开始弹出几个低音，弹奏她曾在彼得堡和安德烈公爵一同听过的歌剧中的短句。在别的听众看来，她用吉他弹奏的乐句毫无意义，但是这些乐音在她想象中却勾起许多回忆。她坐在厨子后面，把视线集中到小吃部的门里射出来的一道阳光上，她一面听她自己弹奏，一面回忆往事。她正处在回忆往事的状态中。
①彼得卡是彼佳的爱称。
索尼娅拿着一只酒杯穿过大厅走进小吃部。娜塔莎望了望她，又望望小吃部的那条门缝，她仿佛觉得，她正在回想，有一道阳光从小吃部的门缝中射出来。索尼娅拿着酒杯走进去。“这情景和回忆不爽毫厘，”娜塔莎想了想。
“索尼娅，这是啥调儿？”娜塔莎用指头拨弄一根粗粗的琴弦时大声喊道。
“哦，你在这里呀！”索尼娅吓得颤抖了一下，然后说，她走到娜塔莎跟前，倾听她说话。“不知道。不是《暴风雨》吗？”
她胆怯地说，害怕说错了。
“唔，她还是像上次那样颤抖了一下，还是那样走到跟前来，畏缩地微微一笑，”娜塔莎想了想，“完全像现在这样……
我想了想，她身上还缺乏什么吧。”
“不对，这是《担水人》一曲中的合唱，你听见吗？”娜塔莎为了要让索尼娅能够听懂，便把合唱的曲子唱完了。
“你到哪里去了？”娜塔莎问道。
“去换一杯水。我马上就把图案描完了。”
“你总是忙得不亦乐乎，可是我就不在行，”娜塔莎说道。
“尼古连卡在哪里？”
“他好像正在睡觉。”
“索尼娅，你去把他喊醒，”娜塔莎说，“告诉他，我喊他唱歌。”她坐了一会儿，想想过去的一切意味着什么，她虽然没有解决这个问题，但一点也不觉得遗憾：她心里又在想象她跟他在一起、他用钟情的目光凝视她的情景。
“唉，他快点归来。我怕他不能回来啊！而主要是，我见老了，就是这么一回事！我以后决不会是现在这个模样了。他也许今天回来，马上就回来。他也许回来了，正坐在那个客厅里。他也许昨天就回来了，我竟忘怀了。”她站起来，放下吉他，到客厅里去。全家人、教师、家庭女教师和客人们都在茶桌旁就座。仆人们都站在桌子周围，可是安德烈公爵没有来，生活又跟以前一样了。
“啊，是她，”伊利亚·安德烈伊奇看见走进来的娜塔莎之后说。“喂，你坐到我身边来吧。”可是娜塔莎在母亲身旁停步，她环视四周，仿佛在寻找什么似的。
“妈妈！”她说道。“把他给我吧，给我吧，妈妈，快点，快点儿。”她又费劲地忍住，不号啕痛哭。
她在桌旁坐了一会，听听长辈和也向桌旁走来的尼古拉谈话。“我的天呀，我的天，还是那些同样的面孔，同样的谈话，爸爸还是拿着一只茶碗，仍旧对着茶碗吹气！”娜塔莎想道，因为他们依然如故，所以她惊恐地觉得自己心中升起了一阵对全家人的厌恶感。
喝完茶以后，尼古拉、索尼娅和娜塔莎都走到摆满沙发的休息室里去，都走到自己喜爱的角落，走到他们经常倾心交谈的地方去。
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