Berg had gone about flaunting his right arm, which had been wounded at Austerlitz, and brandishing a superfluous sword in his left hand - all to good effect. He had told his story to everybody with such conviction and authority that they all came to believe in his action as something portentous and very worthy - and Berg had received two decorations for Austerlitz.
He had also managed to distinguish himself in the Finnish campaign. 4 He had picked up a piece of shrapnel from the shell that had killed an adjutant close to the commander-in-chief and had taken it to the commander. Just as after Austerlitz, he went on and on about this incident and spoke again with such conviction that people ended up believing this was another task that had needed to be done - and Berg received two more decorations. By 1809 he was a captain in the guards with a chest full of medals, and he held one or two very lucrative posts in Petersburg.
The odd sceptic may have smiled at the mention of Berg's merits but it was not to be denied that Berg was a conscientious and gallant officer in good odour with the authorities, and a modest, good-living young man with a brilliant career ahead of him as well as a solid position in society.
Four years before, Berg had pointed out Vera Rostov to a German comrade he had met in the stalls of a Moscow theatre and said to him in German, 'She's going to be my wife.' That was the moment he had made up his mind to marry her. Now in Petersburg, after taking stock of the Rostovs' position and his own, he had decided the time had come to propose.
Berg's proposal was received at first with a reluctance that hardly flattered him. At first it seemed most unusual that the son of an obscure Livonian gentleman should ask for the hand of a Countess Rostov. But Berg's greatest quality was a kind of self-regard founded on such naivety and good will that the Rostovs came round to thinking it must be a good idea because he was completely convinced it was a good idea, in fact a very good idea indeed. Besides that, the Rostovs were in financial trouble which the suitor could hardly be unaware of, and the main thing was that Vera was now twenty-four years old and although she was undeniably good-looking and a sensible young woman who had been taken out everywhere no one had yet made a proposal. So consent was given.
'It's like this,' Berg said to a comrade, whom he described as a friend because he knew that everybody had friends, 'It's like this - I've weighed things up and I wouldn't be getting married if I hadn't given it a lot of thought, or if there had been anything wrong with it. But as things stand Papa and Mamma are reasonably secure - I've given them the income from that Baltic estate - and I can support a wife in Petersburg. I'm pretty careful, and with my pay and whatever she brings we can get along nicely. I'm not marrying for money - I think that's uncouth - but a wife ought to make her contribution and a husband his. I have my service career; she has good contacts and some small means. That's something nowadays, isn't it? But the thing is this: she's a lovely respectable girl, and she's in love with me . . .'
Berg blushed and smiled.
'And I love her because she has a nice personality and a lot of good sense. That other sister of hers, though - same family name but she's completely different, a horrible personality and she's not all that bright, you know what I mean . . . But my fiancee . . . You must come and see us. Come and have . . .' Berg went on. He was about to say 'dinner', but on second thoughts he said 'a cup of tea', and with a curl of his tongue he blew a tiny smoke ring, the very emblem of his dreams of happiness.
The parents' early reluctance to accept Berg's proposal had been followed by the usual celebrations and rejoicing, but the rejoicing was false and forced. Not a little discomfort and embarrassment was apparent in the attitude of the relatives towards this marriage. They seemed to feel guilty for not having given Vera enough affection and now being all too ready to get her off their hands. The old count was more disconcerted than anyone. Perhaps he couldn't have put his finger on what made him feel like that, but it had everything to do with his financial difficulties. He had no idea of what he was worth, how much he owed, or what he might be able to provide for Vera by way of a dowry. Both of his daughters at birth had been assigned an estate with three hundred serfs. But one of these had been sold, and the other mortgaged with the interest payments so far behind that it would have to be sold too, so she couldn't have this estate. And there wasn't any money.
Berg had been engaged for more than a month, and the wedding was only a week away, but still the count couldn't decide about the dowry, and he hadn't discussed it with his wife. Should he give Vera the Ryazan estate? Or sell off some forest-land? Or borrow on a bill of exchange?
Early one morning only a day or two before the wedding Berg walked into the count's study, smiled his nicest smile and politely asked his father-in-law to let him know what the Countess Vera was going to be given. The count was so taken aback by this long-expected inquiry that he just blurted out the first thing that came into his head.
'I like that. You're thinking ahead . . . Yes, I like it. You'll be well satisfied . . .'
He clapped Berg on the shoulder and got to his feet, with the conversation, he hoped, at an end. But Berg, still sweetly smiling, announced that if he didn't know for certain what Vera was being given, and didn't get some of it in advance, he would be obliged to call off the marriage.
'Look at it this way, Count, if I allowed myself to marry now with no definite security for the maintenance of my wife, that would be most irresponsible.'
The conversation ended when the count, anxious to demonstrate his generosity and avoid any more requests, said he would give him a note of hand for eighty thousand. Berg gave a pleasant smile, kissed him on the shoulder and said how grateful he was, but he couldn't make arrangements for his new life without getting thirty thousand in cash. 'Well, let's say twenty thousand at least, Count,' he added, 'plus a note for the other sixty thousand.'
'Yes, yes, very good,' babbled the count. 'Now you'll have to excuse me, dear boy. I'll let you have the twenty thousand - and a note for eighty thousand as well. So that's all right. Kiss me.'
CHAPTER 12
Natasha was now sixteen, and it was the year 1809, the year she had counted forward to on her fingers with Boris after they had kissed four years ago. She hadn't seen him since that day. When Boris's name came up she would speak about him quite openly to Sonya and her mother, as if what had passed between them was over and done with, a bit of childish nonsense long-forgotten not worth talking about. But in the depths of her soul she was still worried - was her engagement to Boris just a joke or was it a solemn and binding promise?
Ever since Boris had left Moscow in 1805 to go into the army he hadn't seen any of the Rostovs. He had been in Moscow several times and had sometimes passed quite close to Otradnoye, but he had never once dropped in on them.
Natasha sometimes suspected that he was avoiding her, and her suspicions were borne out by the lugubrious tone in which he was referred to by her elders.
'Old friends are soon forgotten nowadays,' the countess would say just after Boris's name had been mentioned.
Anna Mikhaylovna had also been a less frequent visitor of late. There was now a marked dignity in her bearing and she missed no opportunity to refer with gratitude but no little triumph to her son's abilities and the brilliant career he was cutting out for himself. When the Rostovs arrived in Petersburg, Boris did call to see them.
It was not without emotion that he drove to their house. Those memories of Natasha were Boris's most poetic memories. But at the same time, he was calling on them absolutely determined to make it clear to her and her relatives that the childish vows between Natasha and him could not be binding on either of them. Because of his closeness to Countess Bezukhov he now had a brilliant position in society, and he had a brilliant position in the service because of the patronage of a bigwig he was well in with, and now he was beginning to work on the possibility of marrying one of the richest heiresses in Petersburg, plans which might easily come to fruition. When Boris came into the Rostovs' drawing-room, Natasha was up in he
r room. Hearing of his arrival she almost ran down to the drawing-room, red in the face and radiant with a more than friendly smile.
Boris was still thinking of the little Natasha he had known four years ago dressed in a short frock, with brilliant black eyes darting out from under her curls, all wild whoops and girlish giggles, so when he saw a totally different Natasha coming into the room he was quite taken aback, and the surprise and delight showed on his face. Natasha was thrilled to see him looking like that.
'Well, do you recognize your little playmate and sweetheart?' said the countess. Boris kissed Natasha's hand and said he was surprised how much she had changed.
'You've grown so pretty!'
'I should hope so!' said the glint in Natasha's eyes.
'Does Papa look any older?' was what she asked.
Natasha sat there in silence, taking no part in the conversation between Boris and her mother but subjecting her childhood suitor to the minutest scrutiny. He could feel those eager, tender eyes boring into him, and once or twice he glanced across in her direction.
Boris's uniform, his spurs, his tie, his hairstyle - everything about him was the last word in fashion and absolutely comme il faut. Natasha took this in at a glance. He was sitting in a chair sideways on to the countess, his right hand smoothing the immaculate, close-fitting glove on his left hand, and he pursed his lips with marked refinement as he talked about the doings of Petersburg high society, with the occasional sweet but dismissive reference to the old days in Moscow and old Moscow acquaintances. Natasha sensed the deliberation with which he dropped one or two highly aristocratic names, alluding to the ambassador's ball, which he had attended, and invitations from So-and-so and What's-his-name.
Natasha sat there the whole time and never said a word, glancing across at him furtively. Boris became increasingly disconcerted and embarrassed under her gaze. He began to look round more frequently at Natasha, and his speech kept breaking down. He stayed no more than ten minutes before getting up to take his leave. Those quizzical, challenging and slightly mocking eyes had never left him. After this first visit Boris told himself that Natasha was as attractive as ever, but he mustn't give in to this feeling, because to marry her - a girl with virtually no fortune - would be the ruin of his career, and it would be dishonourable to pursue their old relationship with no intention of marriage. Boris made up his mind to avoid Natasha, but despite this decision he called again a few days later, and then he became a regular visitor, often spending whole days at the Rostovs'. He couldn't get it out of his mind that he ought to have things out with Natasha and tell her to forget the past - tell her that in spite of everything . . . she could never be his wife because he had no fortune and they would never let her marry him. But he could never quite bring himself to do it - the whole thing was too embarrassing. He became more and more involved with each passing day. Natasha - as far as her mother and Sonya could judge - seemed to be still in love with Boris. She sang him her favourite songs, showed him her album, got him to write things in it, stopped him talking about the old days because the new days were so wonderful, and every time he went back home in a fog of doubt not having said what he had meant to say, not knowing what he was doing, why he had come or how it would all end. He stopped visiting Helene, received reproachful notes from her every day, and still spent days on end at the Rostovs'.
CHAPTER 13
One night the old countess was kneeling on the carpet in her bed-jacket, with her false curls discarded and a single thin wisp of hair escaping from under her white cotton night-cap, bowing to the floor and sighing and moaning as she said her prayers before going to bed, when the door creaked and in ran Natasha, also in a bed-jacket, with bare legs and slippers on her feet, and her hair done up in curl papers. The countess looked round with a frown on her face. She was saying her last prayer, 'And if this couch should be my bier . . .' Her devotional mood had been dispelled. Natasha, excited and red in the face, stopped in her tracks when she saw her mother praying and crouched down, automatically biting her tongue in self-reproach. Seeing that her mother had not finished praying, she tiptoed quickly over to the bed, slid one little foot against the other and pushed off her slippers before jumping up on to that very couch that the countess dreaded becoming her bier. It was a high feather-bedded couch, with five pillows ascending in size. Natasha slipped into bed, sank down into the feather mattress, turned over on one side and began snuggling down under the quilt, tucking herself in, bringing her knees up under her chin and kicking out with a tiny giggle as she alternately hid her face under the quilt and peeped out at her mother. The countess finished her prayers and came to bed looking all stern, but when she saw Natasha with her head under the covers she smiled her sweet, feeble smile.
'Now come on,' said her mother.
'Mamma, we can have a little talk, can't we?' said Natasha. 'Come on, one kiss under the chin, one more, and that's it.' And she put her arms round her mother's neck and kissed her under the chin. Natasha's general attitude to her mother could be quite brusque, but she behaved with such delicacy and sensitivity that whenever she put her arms round her mother she always did it without hurting her or doing anything unpleasant or embarrassing.
'Well, what is it this time?' asked her mother, settling down on the pillows and waiting for Natasha, who had been rolling backwards and forwards, to lie down next to her under the clothes, put her arms out and assume a serious attitude.
Natasha's late-night visits before the count came home from the club were a source of the sweetest pleasure for mother and daughter.
'Come on, what is it this time? And listen, I want to talk to you . . .' Natasha put her hand over her mother's mouth.
'About Boris . . . Yes, I know,' she said seriously. 'That's why I've come. Don't tell me - I know. No, do.' She took her hand away. 'Tell me, Mamma! He's a nice boy, isn't he?'
'Natasha, you're sixteen years old! I was married at your age. You say Boris is a nice boy. Yes, he is, very nice, and I love him like a son. But what do you want? . . . What do you think? I can see you've turned his head . . .'
She looked round at her daughter as she spoke. Natasha was lying there looking straight ahead at one of the mahogany sphinxes carved on the bedposts, so the countess could see her only in profile. Her face struck the countess as remarkably serious and full of concentration.
Natasha was listening, and her mind was working.
'Well?' she said.
'You've completely turned his head - but why? What do you want him to do? You know you can't marry him.'
'Why not?' said Natasha, with no change in her attitude.
'Because he's young, he's poor, he's related to you . . . oh, because you don't love him.'
'How do you know?'
'I just do. It's not right, my love.'
'But what if I want to . . . ?' Natasha began.
'Don't be silly,' said the countess.
'No, what if I want to . . . ?'
'Natasha, I'm being serious . . .'
Natasha didn't let her go on. She pulled the countess's large hand over and kissed it on the back and on the palm, then she turned it over again and started kissing it all over, one knuckle after another, and the spaces in between, then back to a knuckle, and as she did so she whispered, 'January, February, March, April, May.'
'Come on, Mamma, say something. Tell me,' she said, looking round at her mother, who was gazing at her daughter so fondly that she seemed to have forgotten what she was going to say.
'It won't do, darling. People are not going to understand your childish feelings for each other, and when they see you two so close together it could do you a lot of harm in the eyes of other young men who visit us, and anyway, what's more important, it's making him miserable for no good reason. He might have found someone who suits him, some girl with money, and now he's going crazy.'
'What do you mean, going crazy?' repeated Natasha.
'I'll tell you what happened to me. I used to have a cousin . . .'
'I know who you mean - Kirila Matveich. He's an old man.'
'Well he didn't used to be. But listen, Natasha, I'll have a word with Boris. He mustn't come here as often as he does . . .'
'Why mustn't he, if that's what he wants?'
'Because I know it won't lead anywhere.'
'How do you know? No, Mamma, please don't have a word with him. Don't you dare. It's so stupid!' said Natasha, in the tone of one being robbed of her property. 'Look, I'm not going to marry him, so let him come, as long as we both enjoy it.' Natasha looked at her mother, smiling. 'No marriage, but carry on as before,' said she, reinforcing her message.
'What do you mean, darling?'
'Just let's carry on as before. Yes, it's important that I never marry him, but . . . just let things carry on.'
'Carry on!' repeated the countess, and she surprised Natasha by bursting out laughing. It was well meant, the laughter of an old lady, and it made her shake from head to foot.
'Oh, please don't laugh,' cried Natasha. 'Look, the bed's shaking. You're just like me, we're both gigglers . . . Stop it . . .' She snatched her mother's hands, took one and kissed the knuckle on her little finger - that was June - and then she went on to the other one with July and August . . . 'Mamma, does he really love me? What do you think? Did men love you like this? And he's so nice, he really is nice! Though he's not really my type - he's a bit . . . sort of narrow, like a clock on the wall . . . Do you know what I mean? . . . Narrow, you know, all grey and pale . . .'
'You do say some silly things,' said the countess.
Natasha persisted. 'Don't you understand? Nikolay would. Now, take Bezukhov - he's blue, dark blue with a bit of red, and his shape is square.'
'You flirt with him, too,' said the countess with a laugh.
'No, I don't. He's a freemason. I've just found out. He's a very nice man - dark blue with some red. How can I explain it?'