Natasha did not let her finish; she drew the countess’s large hand to her, and kissed it on the upper side, and then on the palm, then turned it over again and began kissing it on the knuckle of the top joint of the finger, then on the space between the knuckles, then on a knuckle again, whispering： “January, February, March, April, May.”
“Speak, mamma; why are you silent？ Speak,” she said, looking round at her mother, who was gazing tenderly at her daughter, and apparently in gazing at her had forgotten all she meant to say.
“This won’t do, my dear. It’s not every one who will understand your childish feelings for one another, and seeing him on such intimate terms with you may prejudice you in the eyes of other young men who visit us, and what is of more consequence, it’s making him wretched for nothing. He had very likely found a match that would suit him, some wealthy girl, and now he’s half-crazy.”
“Half-crazy？” repeated Natasha.
“I’ll tell you what happened in my own case. I had a cousin…”
“I know—Kirilla Matveitch; but he’s old.”
“He was not always old. But I tell you what, Natasha, I’ll speak to Boris. He mustn’t come so often…”
“Why mustn’t he, if he wants to？”
“Because I know it can’t come to anything.”
“How do you know？ No, mamma, don’t speak to him. What nonsense！” said Natasha, in the tone of a man being robbed of his property. “Well, I won’t marry him, so let him come, if he enjoys it and I enjoy it.”
Natasha looked at her mother, smiling. “Not to be married, but—just so,” she repeated.
“How so, my dear？”
“Oh, just so. I see it’s very necessary I shouldn’t marry him, but…just so.”
“Just so, just so,” repeated the countess, and shaking all over, she went off into a good-natured, unexpectedly elderly laugh.
“Don’t laugh, stop,” cried Natasha; “you’re shaking all the bed. You’re awfully like me, just another giggler…Stop…” She snatched both the countess’s hands, kissed one knuckle of the little finger, for June, and went on kissing—July, August—on the other hand. “Mamma, is he very much in love？ What do you think？ Were men as much in love with you？ And he’s very nice, very, very nice！ Only not quite to my liking—he’s so narrow, somehow, like a clock on the wall.… Don’t you understand？…Narrow, you know, grey, light-coloured…”
“What nonsense you talk！” said the countess.
Natasha went on：
“Don’t you really understand？ Nikolenka would understand…Bezuhov now—he’s blue, dark blue and red, and he’s quadrangular.”
“You’re flirting with him, too,” said the countess, laughing.
“No, he’s a freemason, I have heard. He’s jolly, dark blue and red; how am I to explain to you…”
“Little countess,” they heard the count’s voice through the door, “you’re not asleep？” Natasha skipped up, snatched up her slippers, and ran barefoot to her own room. For a long while she could not go to sleep. She kept musing on no one’s being able to understand all she understood and all that was in her.
“Sonya？” she wondered, looking at her friend asleep, curled up like a kitten with her great mass of hair. “No, how could she！ She’s virtuous. She’s in love with Nikolenka and doesn’t care to know anything more. Mamma, even she doesn’t understand. It’s wonderful how clever I am and how…she is charming,” she went on, speaking of herself in the third person, and fancying that it was some very clever, the very cleverest and finest of men, who was saying it of her… “There is everything, everything in her,” this man continued, “extraordinarily clever, charming and then pretty, extraordinarily pretty, graceful. She swims, rides capitally, and a voice！—a marvellous voice, one may say！” She hummed her favourite musical phrase from an opera of Cherubini, flung herself into bed, laughed with delight at the thought that she would soon be asleep, called to Dunyasha to blow out the candle; and before Dunyasha had left her room she had already passed into another still happier world of dreams, where everything was as easy and as beautiful as in reality, and was only better because it was all different.
Next day the countess sent for Boris, and talked to him, and from that day he gave up visiting at the Rostovs’.
