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Updated: June 26, 2025
Pélaguéïa Danilovna, going and coming among them all, with her spectacles on her nose and a quiet smile, had seats arranged and a supper laid out for the visitors, masters and servants alike. She looked straight in the face of each in turn, recognizing no one of the motley crew neither the Rostows, nor Dimmler, nor even her own children, nor any of the clothes they figured in.
"Edward Karlovitch, play my favorite nocturne Field's," cried the countess, from the adjoining room. Dimmler struck a chord. "How quiet you young people are," he said, addressing them. "Yes, we are studying philosophy," said Natacha, and they went on talking of their dreams.
"You go ahead, Zakhar!" shouted Nicholas to his father's coachman, wishing for a chance to race past him. The old count's troyka, with Dimmler and his party, started forward, squeaking on its runners as though freezing to the snow, its deep-toned bell clanging.
"I think this used to be Natasha," thought Nicholas, "and that was Madame Schoss, but perhaps it's not, and this Circassian with the mustache I don't know, but I love her." "Aren't you cold?" he asked. They did not answer but began to laugh. Dimmler from the sleigh behind shouted something probably something funny but they could not make out what he said.
It was not merely Dimmler and the Rostovs she failed to recognize, she did not even recognize her own daughters, or her late husband's, dressing gowns and uniforms, which they had put on. "And who is this?" she asked her governess, peering into the face of her own daughter dressed up as a Kazan-Tartar. "I suppose it is one of the Rostovs! Well, Mr.
The count sat in the ballroom, smiling radiantly and applauding the players. The young people had disappeared. Half an hour later there appeared among the other mummers in the ballroom an old lady in a hooped skirt this was Nicholas. A Turkish girl was Petya. A clown was Dimmler. An hussar was Natasha, and a Circassian was Sonya with burnt-cork mustache and eyebrows.
"May I join the party?" asked Dimmler, coming towards them. "If we were once angels, how is it that we have fallen lower?" "Lower? Who says that it is lower? Who knows what I was?" Natacha retorted with full conviction. "Since the soul is immortal, and I am to live forever in the future, I must have existed in the past, so I have eternity behind me, too."
The old countess had paused in her "patience," a sad, fond smile played on her lips, her eyes were full of tears, and she shook her head, remembering her own youth, looking forward to her daughter's future and reflecting on her strange prospects of marriage. Dimmler, sitting by her side, listened with rapture, his eyes half closed. "She really has a marvellous gift!" he exclaimed.
Schoss, with two women servants, got into Nicolas's sleigh; Dimmler and his wife, with Pétia, into the count's; the rest of the mummers packed into the other sleighs.
Surrounded by the screaming children the mummers, covering their faces and disguising their voices, bowed to their hostess and arranged themselves about the room. "Dear me! there's no recognizing them! And Natasha! See whom she looks like! She really reminds me of somebody. But Herr Dimmler isn't he good! I didn't know him! And how he dances. Dear me, there's a Circassian.
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