wishing to end the
conversation. But Berg, smiling pleasantly, explained that if he did not
know for certain how much Vera 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

Natasha was sixteen and it was the year 1809, the very year to which she
had counted on her fingers with Boris after they had kissed four years
ago. Since then she had not seen him. Before Sonya and her mother, if
Boris 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 Boris was a jest or an important, binding promise
tormented her.

Since Boris left Moscow in 1805 to join the army he had not seen the
Rostovs. He had been in Moscow several times, and had passed near
Otradnoe, but had never been to see them.

Sometimes it occurred to Natasha 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
Boris was mentioned.

Anna Mikhaylovna 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 Rostovs came to Petersburg Boris called
on them.

He drove to their house in some agitation. The memory of Natasha was his
most poetic recollection. But he went with the firm intention of letting
her and her parents feel that the childish relatio