Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. War and Peace by graf Leo Tolstoy (nice books to read .txt) 📖
- Author: graf Leo Tolstoy
Book online «War and Peace by graf Leo Tolstoy (nice books to read .txt) 📖». Author graf Leo Tolstoy
“Oh, how delightful it is!” she kept saying, running up to Sónya.
Nicholas and DenĂsov were walking up and down, looking with kindly patronage at the dancers.
“How sweet she is—she will be a weal beauty!” said DenĂsov.
“Who?”
“Countess Natásha,” answered DenĂsov.
“And how she dances! What gwace!” he said again after a pause.
“Who are you talking about?”
“About your sister,” ejaculated DenĂsov testily.
RostĂłv smiled.
“My dear count, you were one of my best pupils—you must dance,” said little Iogel coming up to Nicholas. “Look how many charming young ladies—” He turned with the same request to DenĂsov who was also a former pupil of his.
“No, my dear fellow, I’ll be a wallflower,” said DenĂsov. “Don’t you wecollect what bad use I made of your lessons?”
“Oh no!” said Iogel, hastening to reassure him. “You were only inattentive, but you had talent—oh yes, you had talent!”
The band struck up the newly introduced mazurka. Nicholas could not refuse Iogel and asked SĂłnya to dance. DenĂsov sat down by the old ladies and, leaning on his saber and beating time with his foot, told them something funny and kept them amused, while he watched the young people dancing, Iogel with Natásha, his pride and his best pupil, were the first couple. Noiselessly, skillfully stepping with his little feet in low shoes, Iogel flew first across the hall with Natásha, who, though shy, went on carefully executing her steps. DenĂsov did not take his eyes off her and beat time with his saber in a way that clearly indicated that if he was not dancing it was because he would not and not because he could not. In the middle of a figure he beckoned to RostĂłv who was passing:
“This is not at all the thing,” he said. “What sort of Polish mazuwka is this? But she does dance splendidly.”
Knowing that DenĂsov had a reputation even in Poland for the masterly way in which he danced the mazurka, Nicholas ran up to Natásha:
“Go and choose DenĂsov. He is a real dancer, a wonder!” he said.
When it came to Natásha’s turn to choose a partner, she rose and, tripping rapidly across in her little shoes trimmed with bows, ran timidly to the corner where DenĂsov sat. She saw that everybody was looking at her and waiting. Nicholas saw that DenĂsov was refusing though he smiled delightedly. He ran up to them.
“Please, VasĂli DmĂtrich,” Natásha was saying, “do come!”
“Oh no, let me off, Countess,” DenĂsov replied.
“Now then, Váska,” said Nicholas.
“They coax me as if I were Váska the cat!” said DenĂsov jokingly.
“I’ll sing for you a whole evening,” said Natásha.
“Oh, the faiwy! She can do anything with me!” said DenĂsov, and he unhooked his saber. He came out from behind the chairs, clasped his partner’s hand firmly, threw back his head, and advanced his foot, waiting for the beat. Only on horse back and in the mazurka was DenĂsov’s short stature not noticeable and he looked the fine fellow he felt himself to be. At the right beat of the music he looked sideways at his partner with a merry and triumphant air, suddenly stamped with one foot, bounded from the floor like a ball, and flew round the room taking his partner with him. He glided silently on one foot half across the room, and seeming not to notice the chairs was dashing straight at them, when suddenly, clinking his spurs and spreading out his legs, he stopped short on his heels, stood so a second, stamped on the spot clanking his spurs, whirled rapidly round, and, striking his left heel against his right, flew round again in a circle. Natásha guessed what he meant to do, and abandoning herself to him followed his lead hardly knowing how. First he spun her round, holding her now with his left, now with his right hand, then falling on one knee he twirled her round him, and again jumping up, dashed so impetuously forward that it seemed as if he would rush through the whole suite of rooms without drawing breath, and then he suddenly stopped and performed some new and unexpected steps. When at last, smartly whirling his partner round in front of her chair, he drew up with a click of his spurs and bowed to her, Natásha did not even make him a curtsy. She fixed her eyes on him in amazement, smiling as if she did not recognize him.
“What does this mean?” she brought out.
Although Iogel did not acknowledge this to be the real mazurka, everyone was delighted with DenĂsov’s skill, he was asked again and again as a partner, and the old men began smilingly to talk about Poland and the good old days. DenĂsov, flushed after the mazurka and mopping himself with his handkerchief, sat down by Natásha and did not leave her for the rest of the evening.
For two days after that Rostóv did not see Dólokhov at his own or at Dólokhov’s home: on the third day he received a note from him:
As I do not intend to be at your house again for reasons you know of, and am going to rejoin my regiment, I am giving a farewell supper tonight to my friends—come to the English Hotel.
About ten o’clock RostĂłv went to the English Hotel straight from the theater, where he had been with his family and DenĂsov. He was at once shown to the best room, which DĂłlokhov had taken for that evening. Some twenty men were gathered round a table at which DĂłlokhov sat between two candles. On the table was a pile of gold and paper money, and he was keeping the bank. RostĂłv had not seen him since his proposal and SĂłnya’s refusal and felt uncomfortable at the thought of how they would meet.
Dólokhov’s clear, cold glance met Rostóv as soon as he entered the door, as though he had long expected him.
“It’s a long time since we met,” he said. “Thanks for coming. I’ll just finish dealing, and then Ilyúshka will come with his chorus.”
“I called once or twice at your house,” said Rostóv, reddening.
DĂłlokhov made no reply.
“You may punt,” he said.
Rostóv recalled at that moment a strange conversation he had once had with Dólokhov. “None but fools trust to luck in play,” Dólokhov had then said.
“Or are you afraid to play with me?” Dólokhov now asked as if guessing Rostóv’s thought.
Beneath his smile RostĂłv saw in him the mood he had shown at the club dinner and at other times, when as if tired of everyday life he had felt a need to escape from it by some strange, and usually cruel, action.
RostĂłv felt ill
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