“Uncle” sang as peasants sing, with full and naive conviction that the whole meaning of a song lies in the words and that the tune comes of itself, and that apart from the words there is no tune, which exists only to give measure to the words. As a result of this the unconsidered tune, like the song of a bird, was extraordinarily good. Natásha was in ecstasies over “Uncle’s” singing. She resolved to give up learning the harp and to play only the guitar. She asked “Uncle” for his guitar and at once found the chords of the song.
After nine o’clock two traps and three mounted men, who had been sent to look for them, arrived to fetch Natásha and Pétya. The count and countess did not know where they were and were very anxious, said one of the men.
Pétya was carried out like a log and laid in the larger of the two traps. Natásha and Nikoláy got into the other. “Uncle” wrapped Natásha up warmly and took leave of her with quite a new tenderness. He accompanied them on foot as far as the bridge that could not be crossed, so that they had to go round by the ford, and he sent huntsmen to ride in front with lanterns.
“Goodbye, dear niece,” his voice called out of the darkness—not the voice Natásha had known previously, but the one that had sung “As ’twas growing dark last night.”
In the village through which they passed there were red lights and a cheerful smell of smoke.
“What a darling Uncle is!” said Natásha, when they had come out onto the high road.
“Yes,” returned Nikoláy. “You’re not cold?”
“No. I’m quite, quite all right. I feel so comfortable!” answered Natásha, almost perplexed by her feelings. They remained silent a long while. The