AT THE BEGINNING of the year 1806, Nikolay Rostov was coming home on leave. Denisov, too, was going home to Voronezh, and Rostov persuaded him to go with him to Moscow and to pay him a visit there. Denisov met his comrade at the last posting station but one, drank three bottles of wine with him, and, in spite of the jolting of the road on the journey to Moscow, slept soundly lying at the bottom of the posting sledge beside Rostov, who grew more and more impatient, as they got nearer to Moscow.
“Will it come soon？ Soon？ Oh, these insufferable streets, bunshops, street lamps, and sledge drivers！” thought Rostov, when they had presented their papers at the town gates and were driving into Moscow.
“Denisov, we’re here！ Asleep！” he kept saying, flinging his whole person forward as though by that position he hoped to hasten the progress of the sledge. Denisov made no response.
“Here’s the corner of the cross-roads, where Zahar the sledge-driver used to stand; and here is Zahar, too, and still the same horse. And here’s the little shop where we used to buy cakes. Make haste！ Now！”
“Which house is it？” asked the driver.
“Over there, at the end, the big one; how is it you don’t see it？ That’s our house,” Rostov kept saying; “that’s our house, of course.”
“Denisov！ Denisov！ we shall be there in a minute.”
Denisov raised his head, cleared his throat, and said nothing.
“Dmitry,” said Rostov to his valet on the box, “surely that light is home？”
“To be sure it is; it’s the light in your papa’s study, too.”
“They’ve not gone to bed yet？ Eh？ What do you think？”
“Mind now, don’t forget to get me out my new tunic,” added Rostov, fingering his new moustaches.
“Come, get on,” he shouted to the driver. “And do wake up, Vasya,” he said to Denisov, who had begun nodding again.
“Come, get on, three silver roubles for vodka—get on！” shouted Rostov, when they were only three houses from the entrance. It seemed to him that the horses were not moving. At last the sledge turned to the right into the approach, Rostov saw the familiar cornice with the broken plaster overhead, the steps, the lamp-post. He jumped out of the sledge while it was moving and ran into the porch. The house stood so inhospitably, as though it were no concern of its who had come into it. There was no one in the porch. “My God！ is everything all right？” wondered Rostov, stopping for a moment with a sinking heart, and then running on again along the porch and up the familiar, crooked steps. Still the same door handle, the dirtiness of which so often angered the countess, turned in the same halting fashion. In the hall there was a single tallow candle burning.
Old Mihailo was asleep on his perch.
Prokofy, the footman, a man so strong that he had lifted up a carriage, was sitting there in his list shoes. He glanced towards the opening door and his expression of sleepy indifference was suddenly transformed into one of frightened ecstasy.
“Merciful Heavens！ The young count！” he cried, recognising his young master. “Can it be？ my darling？” And Prokofy, shaking with emotion, made a dash towards the drawing-room door, probably with the view of announcing him; but apparently he changed his mind, for he came back and fell on his young master’s shoulder.
“All well？” asked Rostov, pulling his hand away from him.
“Thank God, yes！ All, thank God！ Only just finished supper！ Let me have a look at you, your excellency！”
“Everything perfectly all right？”
“Thank God, yes, thank God！”
Rostov, completely forgetting Denisov, flung off his fur coat and, anxious that no one should prepare the way for him, he ran on tip-toe into the big, dark reception-hall. Everything was the same, the same card-tables, the same candelabra with a cover over it, but some one had already seen the young master, and he had not reached the drawing-room when from a side door something swooped headlong, like a storm upon him, and began hugging and kissing him. A second and a third figure dashed in at a second door and at a third; more huggings, more kisses, more outcries and tears of delight. He could not distinguish where and which was papa, which was Natasha, and which was Petya. All were screaming and talking and kissing him at the same moment. Only his mother was not among them, that he remembered.
“And I never knew… Nikolenka … my darling！”
“Here he is … our boy … my darling Kolya.… Isn’t he changed！ Where are the candles？ Tea！”
“Kiss me too！”
“Dearest … and me too.”
Sonya, Natasha, Petya, Anna Mihalovna, Vera, and the old count were all hugging him; and the servants and the maids flocked into the room with talk and outcries.
Petya hung on his legs.
“Me too！” he kept shouting.
Natasha, after pulling him down to her and kissing his face all over, skipped back from him and, keeping her hold of his jacket, pranced like a goat up and down in the same place uttering shrill shrieks of delight.
All round him were loving eyes shining with tears of joy, all round were lips seeking kisses.
Sonya too, as red as crimson baize, clung to his arm and beamed all over, gazing blissfully at his eyes for which she had so long been waiting. Sonya was just sixteen and she was very pretty, especially at this moment of happy, eager excitement. She gazed at him, unable to take her eyes off him, smiling and holding her breath. He glanced gratefully at her; but still he was expectant and looking for some one, and the old countess had not come in yet. And now steps were heard at the door. The steps were so rapid that they could hardly be his mother’s footsteps.
But she it was in a new dress that he did not know, made during his absence. All of them let him go, and he ran to her. When they came together, she sank on his bosom, sobbing. She could not lift up her face, and only pressed it to the cold braiding of his hussar’s jacket. Denisov, who had come into the room unnoticed by any one, stood still looking at them and rubbing his eyes.
“Vassily Denisov, your son’s friend,” he said, introducing himself to the count, who looked inquiringly at him.
