t her wealth had influenced Nikolay in his choice, she could find no fault in Sonya, and she wanted to like her. But she didn't, and to make matters worse she often found herself harbouring feelings of enmity towards her that she couldn't suppress.
One day she was talking to her friend Natasha about Sonya and her own unfair prejudice against her.
'Do you know what I think?' said Natasha. 'You're always reading the Bible, aren't you? There's a passage there that's all about Sonya.'
'Which one?' asked Countess Marya in some surprise.
' "To him that hath shall be given, and from him that hath not shall be taken away even that which he hath." You remember. She's the one that hath not. I don't know why - perhaps she's not selfish enough. I just don't know, but from her it shall certainly be taken away - in fact, it already has been. Sometimes I feel terribly sorry for her. In the old days I used to want Nikolay to marry her, but I had a kind of feeling it wasn't going to happen. She's what they call a barren flower. You know - you get them on strawberry plants. Sometimes I feel sorry for her, but sometimes I think she doesn't feel things the way we would have done.'
And although Countess Marya argued that these words from the Bible didn't have quite that meaning, as she watched Sonya she couldn't help agreeing with Natasha's explanation. Sonya really did seem to find her situation quite bearable; she seemed fully reconciled to her lot as a barren flower. She seemed to be fonder of the family as a whole than the people in it. Like a cat, she had attached herself to the house rather than the people. She waited on the old countess, petted the children and spoilt them, and never refused to do any little thing she could, but everything she did was taken for granted, without any great show of gratitude . . .
The manor house at Bald Hills had been rebuilt, but not on the same scale as under the old prince.
The building work begun in days of hardship was no more than rudimentary. The huge house on its old stone foundations was wood-built and plastered only on the inside. The great rambling house with its bare boards was furnished with plain, hard armchairs and sofas and tables knocked up by serf carpenters using local birch-timber. The house was very roomy, with quarters for the house serfs and accommodation for visitors.
Relatives - Rostovs and Bolkonskys - would sometimes descend on Bald Hills bringing the whole family, sixteen horses and dozens of servants, and stay for months at a time. And four times a year, on the name-days and birthdays of the master and mistress, up to a hundred visitors would come together for a day or two. The rest of the year consisted of the smooth routine of family life with its normal occupations, and with breakfast, lunch, dinner and supper all coming from their own produce.
CHAPTER 9
It was the eve of St Nicholas, the 5th of December 1820. That year Natasha had been staying at Bald Hills with her husband and children since the beginning of the autumn. Pierre was away in Petersburg 'on personal business', as he liked to put it. He had gone originally for three weeks, but he had already been away for six, and they expected him home any minute now.
On this 5th of December, as well as the Bezukhovs there was another visitor staying with the Rostovs - Nikolay's old friend, the now retired General Vasily Denisov.
On the 6th more guests were coming to celebrate his name-day, and Nikolay knew he would have to exchange his loose Tatar coat for a frock-coat and tight boots with pointed toes, and drive over to the new church he had built, and after that to listen to congratulations, offer refreshments to his guests and chat about the elections of the Nobility and this year's harvest. But the day before all that he felt he had a right to spend as usual. By dinner-time Nikolay had gone through the bailiff's accounts from the Ryazan estate, the property of his wife's nephew, written a couple of business letters and walked round the granaries, cattle-yard and stables. After taking certain steps to control the general drunkenness expected next day among the peasants at such a big saint's day celebration, he came in to dinner without having had a chance to talk to his wife in private all day long and sat down at a long table set for twenty, where all the family were assembled, including his mother, old Mademoiselle Belov, her companion, his wife and three children, their governess and tutor, his wife's nephew with his tutor, Sonya, Denisov, Natasha, her three children, their governess and Mikhail Ivanych, the old prince's architect, who was living on at Bald Hills in retirement.
Countess Marya was sitting at the other end of the table. The moment her husband sat down at the table she could tell from the way he snatched up his napkin and shoved back the tumbler and wine-glass set for him that he was in a bad mood, as he sometimes was just before the soup when he had come in from work and sat straight down to dinner. Countess Marya knew this mood only too well, and when she herself was in a good mood she would wait quietly until he had finished his soup, and only then open up a conversation and make him admit there was no reason to be in a bad mood, but today she quite forgot this way of dealing with him, she felt hurt that he was angry with her for no good reason, and she was miserable. She asked where he had been. He told her. She asked whether everything was all right with the estate. He scowled unpleasantly at her forced way of speaking and gave a curt response.
'I wasn't wrong, then,' thought Countess Marya, 'but why should he take things out on me?' In his manner of speaking she could read ill will towards her and a desire to cut short the conversation. She was well aware that her words did sound rather forced, but she couldn't resist asking one or two more questions.
Thanks to Denisov it wasn't long before the conversation over dinner became generalized and animated, and she said nothing more to her husband. When they got up from the table and went over to thank the old countess, Countess Marya held out her hand, kissed her husband and asked why he was angry with her.
'You always look on the black side,' he said. 'It never occurred to me that I was angry.'
But the word 'always' implied something different: 'Yes, I am angry, but I'm not saying why.'
Nikolay got on so well with his wife that even Sonya and the old countess, both of whom would have been envious enough to enjoy any discord between them, could never find anything to criticize them for, though there were occasional outbursts of hostility even between them. Sometimes - especially when they had just come through one of their happiest periods - a feeling of alienation and hostility would suddenly arise between them. It was a feeling that came upon them most frequently when Countess Marya was pregnant. And she was in this condition now.
'Well, messieurs et mesdames,' said Nikolay in a loud voice with a great show of bonhomie (which his wife saw as deliberately getting at her), 'I've been on my feet since six o'clock this morning. Tomorrow's my day of suffering. Today I can go and have a rest.' And without a word to his wife he went off to the little sitting-room, and lay down on the sofa.
'It's always like that,' thought Countess Marya. 'He talks to anybody but me. I can see it. I can see it. I'm repulsive to him, especially in this condition.' She looked down at her swollen belly and then glanced in the mirror at her pale, sallow, sunken face with its eyes that looked bigger than ever.
Everything riled her: Denisov's shouting and guffawing, Natasha's chatter and above all the quick glance from Sonya.
Sonya was always the first object for Countess Marya to rail against.
She sat on with her guests for a little while longer without taking in a word they were saying and then slipped out and went along to the nursery.
The children were perched on chairs playing at driving to Moscow, and they invited her to join in. She sat down and played with them for a while, but the thought of her husband and his uncalled-for bad mood wouldn't leave her in peace. She got to her feet and tiptoed rather awkwardly down to the little sitting-room.
'Perhaps he's not asleep. I'll have it out with him,' she said to herself. Little Andrey, her elder boy, followed behind on tiptoe, mimicking her. His mother didn't notice.
'Marie dear, I think he's asleep. He's tired out,' said Sonya, coming across her in the next room (Countess Marya seemed to come across her everywhere). 'Don't let Andrey wake him up.'
Countess Marya looked round, saw Andrey behind her and sensed that Sonya was right, which was enough in itself to make her go red in the face, and only just manage to bite back a cruel retort. She said nothing and to avoid the impression of obeying her she let him come on behind as she went up to the door, though she signalled for him to keep quiet. Sonya went out through another door. From the room where Nikolay was asleep his wife could hear his steady breathing, so familiar to her in every tone. As she listened she could see his smooth, handsome forehead, his moustache, the whole of the face she had so often stared at in the dead of the night while he was asleep. Nikolay stirred and cleared his throat. And at the same instant Andrey shouted from the doorway, 'Papa, Mamma's here!'
Countess Marya turned pale with dismay and signalled again to the little boy. He said no more, and a terrible silence ensued lasting almost a minute. She knew how Nikolay hated being woken up. Then suddenly through the door she heard him stir and clear his throat again, and in a tone of some irritation he said, 'I never get a minute's peace. Is that you Marie? Why did you bring him here?'
'I just came to have a look . . . I didn't see . . . I'm so sorry . . .'
Nikolay had a good cough and said nothing more. His wife went away, and took her son back to the nursery. Five minutes later little black-eyed three-year-old Natasha, her father's pet, heard from her brother that Papa was asleep in Mamma's little room, escaped unnoticed and ran in to see her father.
The black-eyed little girl rattled the door open with a bang, and her stumpy little legs were soon scurrying across to the sofa, where she took stock of the figure of her father asleep with his back to her, before standing on tiptoe and kissing him on the arm that was pillowing his head. Nikolay turned over with the gentlest of smiles on his face.
'Natasha, Natasha!' came the countess's dismayed whisper from the doorway. 'Papa's having a nap.'
'No, he's not, Mamma,' answered little Natasha with great certainty. 'He's laughing.'
Nikolay put his feet down on the floor, got up from the sofa and picked his little girl up in his arms.
'Come on in, Masha,' he said to his wife. She went in and sat down beside him.
'I didn't see him running up after me,' she said diffidently. 'I was just . . .'
Holding his little girl on one arm, Nikolay glanced at his wife, and when he saw the look of guilt on her face he put the other arm round her and kissed her on the hair.
'Can I kiss your mamma?' he asked Natasha.
The little girl smiled demurely.
'Again,' she said, pointing imperiously to the spot where Nikolay had kissed his wife.
'I don't know why you think I'm in a bad mood,' said Nikolay in response to the question he knew was in his wife's mind.
'You've no idea how sad and lonely I am when you go like that. I always think . . .'
'Marie, shush. You're being silly. Shame on you,' he said merrily.
'I think you don't love me any more, I'm so ugly . . . all the time . . . but especially in this condi . . .'
'Oh, you're so funny! We're not loved because we look good - we look good because we're loved. It is only the likes of Malvina who are loved for being beautiful. So the question is: do I love my wife? No, it's not love, it's . . . I don't know how to put it. When you're away, or there's a bit of trouble between us like today, I feel lost, I can't do anything. Put it another way - do I love my finger? No, I don't, but you try cutting it off . . .'
'Well I'm not like that, but I do understand. So you're not angry with me?'
'Oh yes I am - horribly!' he said with a smile. He got to his feet, smoothed back his hair and began pacing up and down the room.
'Do you know what I've been thinking, Marie?' he began. Now they had made their peace he had gone straight back to thinking aloud in her presence. He didn't stop to ask whether she was ready to listen; it made no difference. An idea had occurred to him, so it must have occurred to her, too. And he told her he was going to persuade Pierre to stay on there until next spring.
Countess Marya listened, made a few comments, and then it was her turn to start thinking aloud. Her thoughts were about the children.
'You can see the woman in her already,' she said in French, pointing to little Natasha. 'You tell us off for being illogical. You can see our women's logic in her. I tell her papa's having a nap, and she says no, he's laughing. And she's right,' said Countess Marya with a happy smile
'Yes, yes,' said Nikolay. He picked his little girl up in his strong arms, lifted her high in the air, sat her on his shoulders, holding on to her little feet, and started walking round the room with her. The same look of mindless happiness lit up the faces of father and daughter.
'But listen, I don't think you're being fair. This one's your favourite,' his wife whispered in French.
'Yes, but what can I do? . . . I try not to show it . . .'
At that moment noises from the hall and ante-room - the sound of the door-pull followed by footsteps - seemed to suggest someone had just arrived.
'Somebody's come.'
'It must be Pierre. I'll go and see,' said Countess Marya, and she went out of the room.
While she was gone Nikolay allowed himself one good gallop round the room with his little girl. Panting for breath, he quickly lowered the giggling child down from his shoulders, and hugged her to his chest. All this jigging around made him think of dancing, and as he looked at the child's happy little round face, he wondered what she would be like when he was an old man taking her out into society, and he remembered his father dancing the Daniel Cooper and the mazurka with his daughter.
'Yes, it's him, Nikolay!' said Countess Marya, returning a few minutes later. 'Our Natasha's come to life again. You should have seen how pleased she was. And didn't he get scolded for staying away too long! Come on, let's go and see him. Hurry up. Do come on! Time to split you two up,' she said, smiling as she watched the little girl cuddling up to her father. Nikolay walked out, holding his daughter by the hand.
Countess Marya stayed there in the sitting-room.
'I would never have believed it, never,' she murmured to herself, 'that anyone could be as happy as this.' Her face glowed with a happy smile, but at the same moment she gave a sigh, and a gentle sadness showed in the depths of her eyes. It was as if there was a different kind of happiness, not like the happiness she was feeling here and now, a form of happiness beyond human experience, and it had come to her in an involuntary memory just at that moment.
CHAPTER 10
Natasha was married in the early spring of 1813, and by 1820 she had three daughters and the son she had been longing for and was now nursing herself. She had put on weight and filled out; the waif-like, energetic Natasha of former days was almost unrecognizable in this sturdy young mother. Her facial features were more sharply defined, and they carried a placid expression of quiet serenity that had replaced the undying fire of excitement that had once been the most charming thing about her. Often nowadays all you saw was her face and body; her spirit was not in evidence. All you saw was a picture of lovely, buxom female fertility. It was a rare thing nowadays for the old fire to flare up again. This would only happen when her husband came back from a long trip, as now, or when a sick child recovered, or when she talked about Prince Andrey to Countess Marya (she never talked to her husband about him because she thought he might be jealous of her memories), or very occasionally when something prompted her to sing - she had not done any serious singing since she got married. And on those rare occasions when the old fire did flare up again her lovely full figure made her more attractive than ever before.
Since her marriage Natasha and her husband had lived in Moscow and Petersburg, on their estate near Moscow and at her mother's house, or rather Nikolay's. The young Countess Bezukhov was not much seen in society, and those who saw her were not greatly impressed. She was neither charming nor friendly. It wasn't that Natasha was a lover of solitude (she wasn't sure whether she liked it or not - probably not, she thought), but busy as she was with pregnancy, confinements and nursing children, as well as involving herself in every minute of her husband's life, the only way she could satisfy all these demands was by renouncing society. Everybody who had known Natasha before her marriage was astonished to see how much she had changed, as if this was something out of the ordinary. Only the old countess, whose maternal instinct had told her that Natasha's wild behaviour had sprung from the need to have a husband and children of her own - as Natasha herself had declared more than once at Otradnoye, and more in earnest than in jest - had known and the only thing that amazed her was the amazement of other people who simply didn't understand Natasha. She never stopped saying she had always known that her daughter would make an ideal wife and mother.
'But she does go to extremes with all this devotion to her husband and children,' the countess would say. 'It's getting rather absurd.'
Natasha had failed to follow the golden rule laid down by so many clever people, especially the French, that tells a newly married young girl not to neglect herself, not to drop the things she is good at, to take even more care over her appearance than when she was a maid and to make every effort to stay as attractive to her husband as she was before he came to be her husband. Natasha did the very opposite: she immediately dropped all the things that had charmed everybody else, including the one thing she was really good at - her singing. She gave it up precisely because of its charming effect on people. In the words of the popular phrase, she let herself go. Natasha didn't bother any more about nice manners or choosing her words carefully, she made no attempt to show herself off to advantage or look her best when her husband was around, and she didn't hesitate to make demands on him. She flagrantly broke every one of these rules. She felt that the seductive arts that had come to her by instinct in earlier days couldn't help but seem ridiculous now to her husband, to whom she had completely surrendered herself from the first moment - with her whole soul, that is, no corner of which was kep