“Very welcome. I know you, I know you,” said the count, kissing and embracing Denisov. “Nikolenka wrote to us … Natasha, Vera, here he is, Denisov.”
The same happy, ecstatic faces turned to the tousled figure of Denisov and surrounded him.
“Darling Denisov,” squealed Natasha, and, beside herself with delight she darted up to him, hugging and kissing him. Every one was disconcerted by Natasha’s behaviour. Denisov too reddened. but he smiled, took Natasha’s hand and kissed it.
Denisov was conducted to the room assigned him, while the Rostovs all gathered about Nikolenka in the divan-room.
The old countess sat beside him, keeping tight hold of his hand, which she was every minute kissing. The others thronged round them, gloating over every movement, every glance, every word he uttered, and never taking their enthusiastic and loving eyes off him. His brother and sisters quarrelled and snatched from one another the place nearest him and disputed over which was to bring him tea, a handkerchief, a pipe.
Rostov was very happy in the love they showed him. But the first minute of meeting them had been so blissful that his happiness now seemed a little thing, and he kept expecting something more and more and more.
Next morning after his journey he slept on till ten o’clock.
The adjoining room was littered with swords, bags, sabretaches, open trunks, and dirty boots. Two pairs of cleaned boots with spurs had just been stood against the wall. The servants brought in wash-hand basins, hot water for shaving, and their clothes well brushed. The room was full of a masculine odour and reeked of tobacco.
“Hi, Grishka, a pipe！” shouted the husky voice of Vaska Denisov. “Rostov, get up！”
Rostov, rubbing his eyelids that seemed glued together, lifted his tousled head from the warm pillow.
“Why, is it late？”
“It is late, nearly ten,” answered Natasha’s voice, and in the next room they heard the rustle of starched skirts and girlish laughter. The door was opened a crack, and there was a glimpse of something blue, of ribbons, black hair and merry faces. Natasha with Sonya and Petya had come to see if he were not getting up.
“Nikolenka, get up！” Natasha’s voice was heard again at the door.
“At once！” Meanwhile in the outer room Petya had caught sight of the swords and seized upon them with the rapture small boys feel at the sight of a soldier brother, and regardless of its not being the proper thing for his sisters to see the young men undressed, he opened the bedroom door.
“Is this your sword？” he shouted.
The girls skipped away. Denisov hid his hairy legs under the bed-clothes, looking with a scared face to his comrade for assistance. The door admitted Petya and closed after him. A giggle was heard from outside.
“Nikolenka, come out in your dressing-gown,” cried Natasha’s voice.
“Is this your sword？” asked Petya, “or is it yours？” he turned with deferential respect to the swarthy, whiskered Denisov.
Rostov made haste to get on his shoes and stockings, put on his dressing-gown and went out. Natasha had put on one spurred boot and was just getting into the other. Sonya was “making cheeses,” and had just whirled her skirt into a balloon and was ducking down, when he came in. They were dressed alike in new blue frocks, both fresh, rosy, and good-humoured. Sonya ran away, but Natasha, taking her brother’s arm, led him into the divan-room, and a conversation began between them. They had not time to ask and answer all the questions about the thousand trifling matters which could only be of interest to them. Natasha laughed at every word he said and at every word she said, not because what they said was amusing, but because she was in high spirits and unable to contain her joy, which brimmed over in laughter.
“Ah, isn’t it nice, isn’t it splendid！” she kept saying every moment. Under the influence of the warm sunshine of love, Rostov felt that for the first time for a year and a half his soul and his face were expanding in that childish smile, he had not once smiled since he left home.
“No, I say,” she said, “you’re quite a man now, eh？ I’m awfully glad you’re my brother.” She touched his moustache. “I do want to know what sort of creatures you men are. Just like us？ No.”
“Why did Sonya run away？” asked Rostov.
“Oh, there’s a lot to say about that！ How are you going to speak to Sonya？ Shall you call her ‘thou’ or ‘you’？”
“As it happens,” said Rostov.
“Call her ‘you,’ please; I’ll tell you why afterwards.”
“But why？”
“Well, I’ll tell you now. You know that Sonya’s my friend, such a friend that I burnt my arm for her sake. Here, look.” She pulled up her muslin sleeve and showed him on her long, thin, soft arm above the elbow near the shoulder （on the part which is covered even in a ball-dress） a red mark.
“I burnt that to show her my love. I simply heated a ruler in the fire and pressed it on it.”
