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The
count moved in his affairs as in a huge net, trying not to
believe
that
he was entangled but becoming more and more so at every step, and
feeling
too feeble to break the meshes or to set to work carefully and
patiently
to disentangle them. The countess, with her loving heart, felt
that
her children were being ruined, that it was not the count's fault
for
he could not help being what he was--that (though he tried to
hide
it)
he himself suffered from the consciousness of his own and his
children's
ruin, and she tried to find means of remedying the position.
From
her feminine point of view she could see only one solution,
namely,
for
Nicholas to marry a rich heiress. She felt this to be their last
hope
and that if Nicholas refused the match she had found for him, she
would
have to abandon the hope of ever getting matters right. This
match
was
with Julie Karagina, the daughter of excellent and virtuous
parents,
a
girl the Rostovs had known from childhood, and who had now become
a
wealthy
heiress through the death of the last of her brothers.
The
countess had written direct to Julie's mother in Moscow suggesting
a
marriage
between their children and had received a favorable answer from
her.
Karagina had replied that for her part she was agreeable, and
everything
depend on her daughter's inclination. She invited Nicholas to
come
to Moscow.
Several
times the countess, with tears in her eyes, told her son that
now
both her daughters were settled, her only wish was to see him
married.
She said she could lie down in her grave peacefully if that
were
accomplished. Then she told him that she knew of a splendid girl
and
tried to discover what he thought about marriage.
At
other times she praised Julie to him and advised him to go to
Moscow
during
the holidays to amuse himself. Nicholas guessed what his mother's
remarks
were leading to and during one of these conversations induced
her
to speak quite frankly. She told him that her only hope of
getting
their
affairs disentangled now lay in his marrying Julie Karagina.
"But,
Mamma, suppose I loved a girl who has no fortune, would you
expect
me
to sacrifice my feelings and my honor for the sake of money?" he
asked
his mother, not realizing the cruelty of his question and only
wishing
to show his noble-mindedness.
"No,
you have not understood me," said his mother, not knowing how to
justify
herself. "You have not understood me, Nikolenka. It is your
happiness
I wish for," she added, feeling that she was telling an
untruth
and was becoming entangled. She began to cry.
"Mamma,
don't cry! Only tell me that you wish it, and you know I will
give
my life, anything, to put you at ease," said Nicholas. "I would
sacrifice
anything for you--even my feelings."
But
the countess did not want the question put like that: she did not
want
a sacrifice from her son, she herself wished to make a sacrifice
for
him.
"No,
you have not understood me, don't let us talk about it," she
replied,
wiping away her tears.
"Maybe
I do love a poor girl," said Nicholas to himself. "Am I to
sacrifice
my feelings and my honor for money? I wonder how Mamma could
speak
so to me. Because Sonya is poor I must not love her," he thought,
"must
not respond to her faithful, devoted love? Yet I should certainly
be
happier with her than with some doll-like Julie. I can always
sacrifice
my feelings for my family's welfare," he said to himself, "but
I
can't coerce my feelings. If I love Sonya, that feeling is for me
stronger
and higher than all else."
Nicholas
did not go to Moscow, and the countess did not renew the
conversation
with him about marriage. She saw with sorrow, and sometimes
with
exasperation, symptoms of a growing attachment between her son
and
the
portionless Sonya. Though she blamed herself for it, she could
not
refrain
from grumbling at and worrying Sonya, often pulling her up
without
reason, addressing her stiffly as "my dear," and using the
formal
"you" instead of the intimate "thou" in speaking to her. The
kindhearted
countess was the more vexed with Sonya because that poor,
dark-eyed
niece of hers was so meek, so kind, so devotedly grateful to
her
benefactors, and so faithfully, unchangingly, and unselfishly in
love
with Nicholas, that there were no grounds for finding fault with
her.
Nicholas
was spending the last of his leave at home. A fourth letter had
come
from Prince Andrew, from Rome, in which he wrote that he would
have
been
on his way back to Russia long ago had not his wound unexpectedly
reopened
in the warm climate, which obliged him to defer his return till
the
beginning of the new year. Natasha was still as much in love with
her
betrothed, found the same comfort in that love, and was still as
ready
to throw herself into all the pleasures of life as before; but at
the
end of the fourth month of their separation she began to have
fits
of
depression which she could not master. She felt sorry for
herself:
sorry
that she was being wasted all this time and of no use to anyone--
while
she felt herself so capable of loving and being loved.
Things
were not cheerful in the Rostovs' home.
CHAPTER
IX
Christmas
came and except for the ceremonial Mass, the solemn and
wearisome
Christmas congratulations from neighbors and servants, and the
new
dresses everyone put on, there were no special festivities,
though
the
calm frost of twenty degrees Reaumur, the dazzling sunshine by
day,
and
the starlight of the winter nights seemed to call for some
special
celebration
of the season.
On
the third day of Christmas week, after the midday dinner, all the
inmates
of the house dispersed to various rooms. It was the dullest time
of
the day. Nicholas, who had been visiting some neighbors that
morning,
was
asleep on the sitting-room sofa. The old count was resting in his
study.
Sonya sat in the drawing room at the round table, copying a
design
for embroidery. The countess was playing patience. Nastasya
Ivanovna
the buffoon sat with a sad face at the window with two old
ladies.
Natasha came into the room, went up to Sonya, glanced at what
she
was doing, and then went up to her mother and stood without
speaking.
"Why
are you wandering about like an outcast?" asked her mother. "What
do
you want?"
"Him...
I want him... now, this minute! I want him!" said Natasha, with
glittering
eyes and no sign of a smile.
The
countess lifted her head and looked attentively at her daughter.
"Don't
look at me, Mamma! Don't look; I shall cry directly."
"Sit
down with me a little," said the countess.
"Mamma,
I want him. Why should I be wasted like this, Mamma?"
Her
voice broke, tears gushed from her eyes, and she turned quickly
to
hide
them and left the room.
She
passed into the sitting room, stood there thinking awhile, and
then
went
into the maids' room. There an old maidservant was grumbling at a
young
girl who stood panting, having just run in through the cold from
the
serfs' quarters.
"Stop
playing--there's a time for everything," said the old woman.
"Let
her alone, Kondratevna," said Natasha. "Go, Mavrushka, go."
Having
released Mavrushka, Natasha crossed the dancing hall and went to
the
vestibule. There an old footman and two young ones were playing
cards.
They broke off and rose as she entered.
"What
can I do with them?" thought Natasha.
"Oh,
Nikita, please go... where can I send him?... Yes, go to the yard
and
fetch a fowl, please, a cock, and you, Misha, bring me some
oats."
"Just
a few oats?" said Misha, cheerfully and readily.
"Go,
go quickly," the old man urged him.
"And
you, Theodore, get me a piece of chalk."
On
her way past the butler's pantry she told them to set a samovar,
though
it was not at all the time for tea.
Foka,
the butler, was the most ill-tempered person in the house.
Natasha
liked
to test her power over him. He distrusted the order and asked
whether
the samovar was really wanted.
"Oh
dear, what a young lady!" said Foka, pretending to frown at
Natasha.
No
one in the house sent people about or gave them as much trouble
as
Natasha
did. She could not see people unconcernedly, but had to send
them
on some errand. She seemed to be trying whether any of them would
get
angry or sulky with her; but the serfs fulfilled no one's orders
so
readily
as they did hers. "What can I do, where can I go?" thought she,
as
she went slowly along the passage.
"Nastasya
Ivanovna, what sort of children shall I have?" she asked the
buffoon,
who was coming toward her in a woman's jacket.
"Why,
fleas, crickets, grasshoppers," answered the buffoon.
"O
Lord, O Lord, it's always the same! Oh, where am I to go? What am
I
to
do with myself?" And tapping with her heels, she ran quickly
upstairs
to
see Vogel and his wife who lived on the upper story.
Two
governesses were sitting with the Vogels at a table, on which
were
plates
of raisins, walnuts, and almonds. The governesses were discussing
whether
it was cheaper to live in Moscow or Odessa. Natasha sat down,
listened
to their talk with a serious and thoughtful air, and then got
up
again.
"The
island of Madagascar," she said, "Ma-da-gas-car," she repeated,
articulating
each syllable distinctly, and, not replying to Madame
Schoss
who asked her what she was saying, she went out of the room.
Her
brother Petya was upstairs too; with the man in attendance on him
he
was
preparing fireworks to let off that night.
"Petya!
Petya!" she called to him. "Carry me downstairs."
Petya
ran up and offered her his back. She jumped on it, putting her
arms
round his neck, and he pranced along with her.
"No,
don't... the island of Madagascar!" she said, and jumping off his
back
she went downstairs.
Having
as it were reviewed her kingdom, tested her power, and made sure
that
everyone was submissive, but that all the same it was dull,
Natasha
betook
herself to the ballroom, picked up her guitar, sat down in a dark
corner
behind a bookcase, and began to run her fingers over the strings
in
the bass, picking out a passage she recalled from an opera she
had
heard
in Petersburg with Prince Andrew. What she drew from the guitar
would
have had no meaning for other listeners, but in her imagination a
whole
series of reminiscences arose from those sounds. She sat behind
the
bookcase with her eyes fixed on a streak of light escaping from
the
pantry
door and listened to herself and pondered. She was in a mood for
brooding
on the past.
Sonya
passed to the pantry with a glass in her hand. Natasha glanced at
her
and at the crack in the pantry door, and it seemed to her that
she
remembered
the light falling through that crack once before and Sonya
passing
with a glass in her hand. "Yes it was exactly the same," thought
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