War and Peace
made up his mind to marry her. Now in Petersburg, having considered the
Rostóvs’ position and his own, he decided that the time had come to
propose.
* “That girl shall be my wife.”
Berg’s proposal was at first received with a perplexity that was not
flattering to him. At first it seemed strange that the son of an obscure
Livonian gentleman should propose marriage to a Countess Rostóva; but
Berg’s chief characteristic was such a naïve and good natured egotism
that the Rostóvs involuntarily came to think it would be a good thing,
since he himself was so firmly convinced that it was good, indeed
excellent. Moreover, the Rostóvs’ affairs were seriously embarrassed,
as the suitor could not but know; and above all, Véra was twenty-four,
had been taken out everywhere, and though she was certainly good-looking
and sensible, no one up to now had proposed to her. So they gave their
consent.
“You see,” said Berg to his comrade, whom he called “friend”
only because he knew that everyone has friends, “you see, I have
considered it all, and should not marry if I had not thought it all out
or if it were in any way unsuitable. But on the contrary, my papa and
mamma are now provided for—I have arranged that rent for them in the
Baltic Provinces—and I can live in Petersburg on my pay, and with
her fortune and my good management we can get along nicely. I am not
marrying for money—I consider that dishonorable—but a wife should
bring her share and a husband his. I have my position in the service,
she has connections and some means. In our times that is worth
something, isn’t it? But above all, she is a handsome, estimable girl,
and she loves me....”
Berg blushed and smiled.
“And I love her, because her character is sensible and very good.
Now the other sister, though they are the same family, is quite
different—an unpleasant character and has not the same intelligence.
She is so... you know?... Unpleasant... But my fiancée!... Well, you
will be coming,” he was going to say, “to dine,” but changed his
mind and said “to take tea with us,” and quickly doubling up his
tongue he blew a small round ring of tobacco smoke, perfectly embodying
his dream of happiness.
After the first feeling of perplexity aroused in the parents by Berg’s
proposal, the holiday tone of joyousness usual at such times took
possession of the family, but the rejoicing was external and insincere.
In the family’s feeling toward this wedding a certain awkwardness
and constraint was evident, as if they were ashamed of not having loved
Véra sufficiently and of being so ready to get her off their hands. The
old count felt this most. He would probably have been unable to state
the cause of his embarrassment, but it resulted from the state of his
affairs. He did not know at all how much he had, what his debts amounted
to, or what dowry he could give Véra. When his daughters were born
he had assigned to each of them, for her dowry, an estate with three
hundred serfs; but one of these estates had already been sold, and the
other was mortgaged and the interest so much in arrears that it would
have to be sold, so that it was impossible to give it to Véra. Nor had
he any money.
Berg had already been engaged a month, and only a week remained before
the wedding, but the count had not yet decided in his own mind the
question of the dowry, nor spoken to his wife about it. At one time the
count thought of giving her the Ryazán estate or of selling a forest,
at another time of borrowing money on a note of hand. A few days before
the wedding Berg entered the count’s study early one morning and, with
a pleasant smile, respectfully asked his future father-in-law to let
him know what Véra’s dowry would be. The count was so disconcerted by
this long-foreseen inquiry that without consideration he gave the first
reply that came into his head. “I like your being businesslike about
it.... I like it. You shall be satisfied....”
And patting Berg on the shoulder he got up, wishing to end the
conversation. But Berg, smiling pleasantly, explained that if he did not
know for certain how much Véra would have and did not receive at least
part of the dowry in advance, he would have to break matters off.
“Because, consider, Count—if I allowed myself to marry now
without having definite means to maintain my wife, I should be acting
badly....”
The conversation ended by the count, who wished to be generous and to
avoid further importunity, saying that he would give a note of hand
for eighty thousand rubles. Berg smiled meekly, kissed the count on the
shoulder, and said that he was very grateful, but that it was impossible
for him to arrange his new life without receiving thirty thousand in
ready money. “Or at least twenty thousand, Count,” he added, “and
then a note of hand for only sixty thousand.”
“Yes, yes, all right!” said the count hurriedly. “Only excuse me,
my dear fellow, I’ll give you twenty thousand and a note of hand for
eighty thousand as well. Yes, yes! Kiss me.”
CHAPTER XII
Natásha was sixteen and it was the year 1809, the very year to which
she had counted on her fingers with Borís after they had kissed four
years ago. Since then she had not seen him. Before Sónya and her
mother, if Borís happened to be mentioned, she spoke quite freely of
that episode as of some childish, long-forgotten matter that was not
worth mentioning. But in the secret depths of her soul the question
whether her engagement to Borís was a jest or an important, binding
promise tormented her.
Since Borís left Moscow in 1805 to join the army he had not seen the
Rostóvs. He had been in Moscow several times, and had passed near
Otrádnoe, but had never been to see them.
Sometimes it occurred to Natásha that he did not wish to see her, and
this conjecture was confirmed by the sad tone in which her elders spoke
of him.
“Nowadays old friends are not remembered,” the countess would say
when Borís was mentioned.
Anna Mikháylovna also had of late visited them less frequently, seemed
to hold herself with particular dignity, and always spoke rapturously
and gratefully of the merits of her son and the brilliant career on
which he had entered. When the Rostóvs came to Petersburg Borís called
on them.
He drove to their house in some agitation. The memory of Natásha was
his most poetic recollection. But he went with the firm intention of
letting her and her parents feel that the childish relations between
himself and Natásha could not be binding either on her or on him. He
had a brilliant position in society thanks to his intimacy with Countess
Bezúkhova, a brilliant position in the service thanks to the patronage
of an important personage whose complete confidence he enjoyed, and he
was beginning to make plans for marrying one of the richest heiresses in
Petersburg, plans which might very easily be realized. When he entered
the Rostóvs’ drawing room Natásha was in her own room. When she
heard of his arrival she almost ran into the drawing room, flushed and
beaming with a more than cordial smile.
Borís remembered Natásha in a short dress, with dark eyes shining from
under her curls and boisterous, childish laughter, as he had known her
four years before; and so he was taken aback when quite a different
Natásha entered, and his face expressed rapturous astonishment. This
expression on his face pleased Natásha.
“Well, do you recognize your little madcap playmate?” asked the
countess.
Borís kissed Natásha’s hand and said that he was astonished at the
change in her.
“How handsome you have grown!”
“I should think so!” replied Natásha’s laughing eyes.
“And is Papa older?” she asked.
Natásha sat down and, without joining in Borís’ conversation with
the countess, silently and minutely studied her childhood’s suitor. He
felt the weight of that resolute and affectionate scrutiny and glanced
at her occasionally.
Borís’ uniform, spurs, tie, and the way his hair was brushed were all
comme il faut and in the latest fashion. This Natásha noticed at once.
He sat rather sideways in the armchair next to the countess, arranging
with his right hand the cleanest of gloves that fitted his left hand
like a skin, and he spoke with a particularly refined compression of his
lips about the amusements of the highest Petersburg society, recalling
with mild irony old times in Moscow and Moscow acquaintances. It was
not accidentally, Natásha felt, that he alluded, when speaking of the
highest aristocracy, to an ambassador’s ball he had attended, and to
invitations he had received from N.N. and S.S.
All this time Natásha sat silent, glancing up at him from under her
brows. This gaze disturbed and confused Borís more and more. He looked
round more frequently toward her, and broke off in what he was saying.
He did not stay more than ten minutes, then rose and took his leave. The
same inquisitive, challenging, and rather mocking eyes still looked
at him. After his first visit Borís said to himself that Natásha
attracted him just as much as ever, but that he must not yield to that
feeling, because to marry her, a girl almost without fortune, would
mean ruin to his career, while to renew their former relations without
intending to marry her would be dishonorable. Borís made up his mind
to avoid meeting Natásha, but despite that resolution he called again
a few days later and began calling often and spending whole days at the
Rostóvs’. It seemed to him that he ought to have an explanation with
Natásha and tell her that the old times must be forgotten, that in
spite of everything... she could not be his wife, that he had no means,
and they would never let her marry him. But he failed to do so and felt
awkward about entering on such an explanation. From day to day he
became more and more entangled. It seemed to her mother and Sónya that
Natásha was in love with Borís as of old. She sang him his favorite
songs, showed him her album, making him write in it, did not allow him
to allude to the past, letting it be understood how delightful was the
present; and every day he went away in a fog, without having said what
he meant to, and not knowing what he was doing or why he came, or how
it would all end. He left off visiting Hélène and received reproachful
notes from her every day, and yet he continued to spend whole days with
the Rostóvs.
CHAPTER XIII
One night when the old countess, in nightcap and dressing jacket,
without her false curls, and with her poor little knob of hair showing
under her white cotton cap, knelt sighing and groaning on a rug and
bowing to the ground in prayer, her door creaked and Natásha, also in
a dressing jacket with slippers on her bare feet and her hair in
curlpapers, ran in. The countess—her prayerful mood dispelled—looked
round and frowned. She was finishing her last prayer: “Can it be that
this couch will be my grave?” Natásha, flushed and eager, seeing
her mother in prayer, suddenly checked her rush, half sat down, and
unconsciously put out her tongue as if chiding herself. Seeing that
her mother was still praying she ran on tiptoe to the bed and, rapidly
slipping one little foot against the other, pushed off her slippers and
jumped onto the bed the countess had feared might become her grave. This
couch was high, with a feather bed and five pillows each smaller than
the one below. Natásha jumped on it, sank into the feather bed, rolled
over to the wall, and began snuggling up the bedclothes as she settled
down, raising her knees to her chin, kicking out and laughing almost
inaudibly, now covering herself up head and all, and now peeping at her
mother. The countess finished her prayers and came to the bed with a
stern face, but seeing that Natásha’s head was covered, she smiled
in her kind, weak way.
“Now then, now then!” said she.