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The
old
countess
,
not
letting
go
of
his
hand
and
kissing
it
every
moment
,
sat
beside
him
:
the
rest
,
crowding
round
him
,
watched
every
movement
,
word
,
or
look
of
his
,
never
taking
their
blissfully
adoring
eyes
off
him
.
His
brother
and
sisters
struggled
for
the
places
nearest
to
him
and
disputed
with
one
another
who
should
bring
him
his
tea
,
handkerchief
,
and
pipe
.
Rostóv
was
very
happy
in
the
love
they
showed
him
;
but
the
first
moment
of
meeting
had
been
so
beatific
that
his
present
joy
seemed
insufficient
,
and
he
kept
expecting
something
more
,
more
and
yet
more
.
Next
morning
,
after
the
fatigues
of
their
journey
,
the
travelers
slept
till
ten
o'clock
.
In
the
room
next
to
their
bedroom
there
was
a
confusion
of
sabers
,
satchels
,
sabretaches
,
open
portmanteaus
,
and
dirty
boots
.
Two
freshly
cleaned
pairs
with
spurs
had
just
been
placed
by
the
wall
.
The
servants
were
bringing
in
jugs
and
basins
,
hot
water
for
shaving
,
and
their
well-brushed
clothes
.
There
was
a
masculine
odor
and
a
smell
of
tobacco
.
"
Hallo
,
Gwíska
--
my
pipe
!
"
came
Vasíli
Denísov
's
husky
voice
.
"
Wostóv
,
get
up
!
"
Rostóv
,
rubbing
his
eyes
that
seemed
glued
together
,
raised
his
disheveled
head
from
the
hot
pillow
.
"
Why
,
is
it
late
?
"
"
Late
!
It
's
nearly
ten
o'clock
,
"
answered
Natásha
's
voice
.
A
rustle
of
starched
petticoats
and
the
whispering
and
laughter
of
girls
'
voices
came
from
the
adjoining
room
.
The
door
was
opened
a
crack
and
there
was
a
glimpse
of
something
blue
,
of
ribbons
,
black
hair
,
and
merry
faces
.
It
was
Natásha
,
Sónya
,
and
Pétya
,
who
had
come
to
see
whether
they
were
getting
up
.
"
Nicholas
!
Get
up
!
"
Natásha
's
voice
was
again
heard
at
the
door
.
