Had Nikoláy been able to analyze his feelings he would have found that his steady, tender, and proud love of his wife rested on his feeling of wonder at her spirituality and at the lofty moral world, almost beyond his reach, in which she had her being.
He was proud of her intelligence and goodness, recognized his own insignificance beside her in the spiritual world, and rejoiced all the more that she with such a soul not only belonged to him but was part of himself.
“I quite, quite approve, my dearest!” said he with a significant look, and after a short pause he added: “And I behaved badly today. You weren’t in the study. We began disputing—Pierre and I—and I lost my temper. But he is impossible: such a child! I don’t know what would become of him if Natásha didn’t keep him in hand. … Have you any idea why he went to Petersburg? They have formed …”
“Yes, I know,” said Countess Márya. “Natásha told me.”
“Well, then, you know,” Nikoláy went on, growing hot at the mere recollection of their discussion, “he wanted to convince me that it is every honest man’s duty to go against the government, and that the oath of allegiance and duty … I am sorry you weren’t there. They all fell on me—Denísov and Natásha … Natásha is absurd. How she rules over him! And yet there need only be a discussion and she has no words of her own but only repeats his sayings …” added Nikoláy, yielding to that irresistible inclination which tempts us to judge those nearest and dearest to us. He forgot that what he was saying about Natásha could have been applied word for word to himself