Chapter Chapter 117 · 第117章

The Rostóvs’ monetary affairs had not improved during the two years

they had spent in the country.

Though Nicholas Rostóv had kept firmly to his resolution and was still

serving modestly in an obscure regiment, spending comparatively little,

the way of life at Otrádnoe—Mítenka’s management of affairs, in

particular—was such that the debts inevitably increased every year.

The only resource obviously presenting itself to the old count was to

apply for an official post, so he had come to Petersburg to look for one

and also, as he said, to let the lassies enjoy themselves for the last

time.

Soon after their arrival in Petersburg Berg proposed to Véra and was

accepted.

Though in Moscow the Rostóvs belonged to the best society without

themselves giving it a thought, yet in Petersburg their circle of

acquaintances was a mixed and indefinite one. In Petersburg they were

provincials, and the very people they had entertained in Moscow without

inquiring to what set they belonged, here looked down on them.

The Rostóvs lived in the same hospitable way in Petersburg as in

Moscow, and the most diverse people met at their suppers. Country

neighbors from Otrádnoe, impoverished old squires and their daughters,

Perónskaya a maid of honor, Pierre Bezúkhov, and the son of their

district postmaster who had obtained a post in Petersburg. Among the

men who very soon became frequent visitors at the Rostóvs’ house in

Petersburg were Borís, Pierre whom the count had met in the street and

dragged home with him, and Berg who spent whole days at the Rostóvs’

and paid the eldest daughter, Countess Véra, the attentions a young man

pays when he intends to propose.

Not in vain had Berg shown everybody his right hand wounded at

Austerlitz and held a perfectly unnecessary sword in his left. He

narrated that episode so persistently and with so important an air that

everyone believed in the merit and usefulness of his deed, and he had

obtained two decorations for Austerlitz.

In the Finnish war he also managed to distinguish himself. He had picked

up the scrap of a grenade that had killed an aide-de-camp standing near

the commander in chief and had taken it to his commander. Just as he had

done after Austerlitz, he related this occurrence at such length and

so insistently that everyone again believed it had been necessary to do

this, and he received two decorations for the Finnish war also. In

1809 he was a captain in the Guards, wore medals, and held some special

lucrative posts in Petersburg.

Though some skeptics smiled when told of Berg’s merits, it could not

be denied that he was a painstaking and brave officer, on excellent

terms with his superiors, and a moral young man with a brilliant career

before him and an assured position in society.

Four years before, meeting a German comrade in the stalls of a Moscow

theater, Berg had pointed out Véra Rostóva to him and had said in

German, “das soll mein Weib werden,” * and from that moment had

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.”