But the word always seemed to her to imply: “Yes, I am angry but I won’t tell you why.”
Nicholas and his wife lived together so happily that even Sónya and the old countess, who felt jealous and would have liked them to disagree, could find nothing to reproach them with; but even they had their moments of antagonism. Occasionally, and it was always just after they had been happiest together, they suddenly had a feeling of estrangement and hostility, which occurred most frequently during Countess Mary’s pregnancies, and this was such a time.
“Well, messieurs et mesdames,” said Nicholas loudly and with apparent cheerfulness (it seemed to Countess Mary that he did it on purpose to vex her), “I have been on my feet since six this morning. Tomorrow I shall have to suffer, so today I’ll go and rest.”
And without a word to his wife he went to the little sitting room and lay down on the sofa.
“That’s always the way,” thought Countess Mary. “He talks to everyone except me. I see... I see that I am repulsive to him, especially when I am in this condition.” She looked down at her expanded figure and in the glass at her pale, sallow, emaciated face in which her eyes now looked larger than ever.
And everything annoyed her—Denísov’s shouting and laughter, Natásha’s talk, and especially a quick glance Sónya gave her.
Sónya was always the first excuse Countess Mary found for feeling irritated.
Having sat awhile with her visitors without understanding anything of what they were saying, she softly left the room and went to the nursery.
The children were playing at “going to Moscow” in a carriage made of chairs and invited her to go with them. She sat down and played with them a little, but the thought of her husband and his unreasonable crossness worried her. She got up and, walking on tiptoe with difficulty, went to the small sitting room.
“Perhaps he is not asleep; I’ll have an explanation with him,” she said to herself. Little Andrew, her eldest boy, imitating his mother, followed her on tiptoe. She did not notice him.