Book 4 Chapter 1

AT THE BEGINNING of the year 1806, Nikolay Rostov was coming home on leave. Denisov, too, was going home to Voronezh, and Rostov persuaded him to go with him to Moscow and to pay him a visit there. Denisov met his comrade at the last posting station but one, drank three bottles of wine with him, and, in spite of the jolting of the road on the journey to Moscow, slept soundly lying at the bottom of the posting sledge beside Rostov, who grew more and more impatient, as they got nearer to Moscow.

“Will it come soon? Soon? Oh, these insufferable streets, bunshops, street lamps, and sledge drivers!” thought Rostov, when they had presented their papers at the town gates and were driving into Moscow.

“Denisov, we're here! Asleep!” he kept saying, flinging his whole person forward as though by that position he hoped to hasten the progress of the sledge. Denisov made no response.

“Here's the corner of the cross-roads, where Zahar the sledge-driver used to stand; and here is Zahar, too, and still the same horse. And here's the little shop where we used to buy cakes. Make haste! Now!”

“Which house is it?” asked the driver.

“Over there, at the end, the big one; how is it you don't see it? That's our house,” Rostov kept saying; “that's our house, of course.”

“Denisov! Denisov! we shall be there in a minute.”

Denisov raised his head, cleared his throat, and said nothing.

“Dmitry,” said Rostov to his valet on the box, “surely that light is home?”

“To be sure it is; it's the light in your papa's study, too.”

“They've not gone to bed yet? Eh? What do you think?”

“Mind now, don't forget to get me out my new tunic,” added Rostov, fingering his new moustaches.

“Come, get on,” he shouted to the driver. “And do wake up, Vasya,” he said to Denisov, who had begun nodding again.

“Come, get on, three silver roubles for vodka—get on!” shouted Rostov, when they were only three houses from the entrance. It seemed to him that the horses were not moving. At last the sledge turned to the right into the approach, Rostov saw the familiar cornice with the broken plaster overhead, the steps, the lamp-post. He jumped out of the sledge while it was moving and ran into the porch. The house stood so inhospitably, as though it were no concern of its who had come into it. There was no one in the porch. “My God! is everything all right?” wondered Rostov, stopping for a moment with a sinking heart, and then running on again along the porch and up the familiar, crooked steps. Still the same door handle, the dirtiness of which so often angered the countess, turned in the same halting fashion. In the hall there was a single tallow candle burning.

Old Mihailo was asleep on his perch.

Prokofy, the footman, a man so strong that he had lifted up a carriage, was sitting there in his list shoes. He glanced towards the opening door and his expression of sleepy indifference was suddenly transformed into one of frightened ecstasy.

“Merciful Heavens! The young count!” he cried, recognising his young master. “Can it be? my darling?” And Prokofy, shaking with emotion, made a dash towards the drawing-room door, probably with the view of announcing him; but apparently he changed his mind, for he came back and fell on his young master's shoulder.

“All well?” asked Rostov, pulling his hand away from him.

“Thank God, yes! All, thank God! Only just finished supper! Let me have a look at you, your excellency!”

“Everything perfectly all right?”

“Thank God, yes, thank God!”

Rostov, completely forgetting Denisov, flung off his fur coat and, anxious that no one should prepare the way for him, he ran on tip-toe into the big, dark reception-hall. Everything was the same, the same card-tables, the same candelabra with a cover over it, but some one had already seen the young master, and he had not reached the drawing-room when from a side door something swooped headlong, like a storm upon him, and began hugging and kissing him. A second and a third figure dashed in at a second door and at a third; more huggings, more kisses, more outcries and tears of delight. He could not distinguish where and which was papa, which was Natasha, and which was Petya. All were screaming and talking and kissing him at the same moment. Only his mother was not among them, that he remembered.

“And I never knew… Nikolenka … my darling!”

“Here he is … our boy … my darling Kolya.… Isn't he changed! Where are the candles? Tea!”

“Kiss me too!”

“Dearest … and me too.”

Sonya, Natasha, Petya, Anna Mihalovna, Vera, and the old count were all hugging him; and the servants and the maids flocked into the room with talk and outcries.

Petya hung on his legs.

“Me too!” he kept shouting.

Natasha, after pulling him down to her and kissing his face all over, skipped back from him and, keeping her hold of his jacket, pranced like a goat up and down in the same place uttering shrill shrieks of delight.

All round him were loving eyes shining with tears of joy, all round were lips seeking kisses.

Sonya too, as red as crimson baize, clung to his arm and beamed all over, gazing blissfully at his eyes for which she had so long been waiting. Sonya was just sixteen and she was very pretty, especially at this moment of happy, eager excitement. She gazed at him, unable to take her eyes off him, smiling and holding her breath. He glanced gratefully at her; but still he was expectant and looking for some one, and the old countess had not come in yet. And now steps were heard at the door. The steps were so rapid that they could hardly be his mother's footsteps.

But she it was in a new dress that he did not know, made during his absence. All of them let him go, and he ran to her. When they came together, she sank on his bosom, sobbing. She could not lift up her face, and only pressed it to the cold braiding of his hussar's jacket. Denisov, who had come into the room unnoticed by any one, stood still looking at them and rubbing his eyes.

“Vassily Denisov, your son's friend,” he said, introducing himself to the count, who looked inquiringly at him.

“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.”

Sitting in his old schoolroom on the sofa with little cushions on the arms, and looking into Natasha's wildly eager eyes, Rostov was carried back into that world of home and childhood which had no meaning for any one else but gave him some of the greatest pleasures in his life. And burning one's arm with a ruler as a proof of love did not strike him as pointless; he understood it, and was not surprised at it.

“Well, is that all?” he asked.

“Well, we are such friends, such great friends! That's nonsense—the ruler; but we are friends for ever. If she once loves any one, it's for ever; I don't understand that, I forget so quickly.”

“Well, what then?”

“Yes, so she loves me and you.” Natasha suddenly flushed. “Well, you remember before you went away … She says you are to forget it all… She said, I shall always love him, but let him be free. That really is splendid, noble! Yes, yes; very noble? Yes?” Natasha asked with such seriousness and emotion that it was clear that what she was saying now she had talked of before with tears. Rostov thought a little.

“I never take back my word,” he said. “And besides, Sonya's so charming that who would be such a fool as to renounce his own happiness?”

“No, no,” cried Natasha. “She and I have talked about that already. We knew that you'd say that. But that won't do, because, don't you see, if you say that—if you consider yourself bound by your word, then it makes it as though she had said that on purpose. It makes it as though you were, after all, obliged to marry her, and it makes it all wrong.”

Rostov saw that it had all been well thought over by them. On the previous day, Sonya had struck him by her beauty; in the glimpse he had caught of her to-day, she seemed even prettier. She was a charming girl of sixteen, obviously passionately in love with him (of that he could not doubt for an instant). “Why should he not love her now, even if he did not marry her,” mused Rostov, “but … just now he had so many other joys and interests!”

“Yes, that's a very good conclusion on their part,” he thought; “I must remain free.”

“Well, that's all right, then,” he said; “we'll talk about it later on. Ah, how glad I am to be back with you!” he added. “Come, tell me, you've not been false to Boris?”

“That's nonsense!” cried Natasha, laughing. “I never think of him nor of any one else, and don't want to.”

“Oh, you don't, don't you! Then what do you want?”

“I?” Natasha queried, and her face beamed with a happy smile. “Have you seen Duport?”

“No.”

“Not seen Duport, the celebrated dancer? Oh, well then, you won't understand. I—that's what I am.” Curving her arms, Natasha held out her skirt, as dancers do, ran back a few steps, whirled round, executed a pirouette, bringing her little feet together and standing on the very tips of her toes, moved a few steps forward.

“You see how I stand? there, like this,” she kept saying; but she could not keep on her toes. “So that's what I'm going to be! I'm never going to be married to any one; I'm going to be a dancer. Only, don't tell anybody.”

Rostov laughed so loudly and merrily that Denisov in his room felt envious, and Natasha could not help laughing with him.

“No, isn't it all right?” she kept saying.

“Oh, quite. So you don't want to marry Boris now?”

Natasha got hot.

“I don't want to marry any one. I'll tell him so myself when I see him.”

“Oh, will you?” said Rostov.

“But that's all nonsense,” Natasha prattled on. “And, I say, is Denisov nice?” she asked.

“Yes, he's nice.”

“Well, good-bye, go and dress. Is he a dreadful person — Denisov?”

“How, dreadful?” asked Nikolay. “No, Vaska's jolly.”

“You call him Vaska? … that's funny. Well, is he very nice?”

“Very nice.”

“Make haste and come to tea, then. We are all going to have it together.”

And Natasha rose on to her toes and stepped out of the room, as dancers do, but smiling as only happy girls of fifteen can smile. Rostov reddened on meeting Sonya in the drawing-room. He did not know how to behave with her. Yesterday they had kissed in the first moment of joy at meeting, but to-day they felt that out of the question. He felt that every one, his mother and his sisters, were looking inquiringly at him, and wondering how he would behave with her. He kissed her hand, and called her you and Sonya. But their eyes when they met spoke more fondly and kissed tenderly. Her eyes asked his forgiveness for having dared, by Natasha's mediation, to remind him of his promise, and thanked him for his love. His eyes thanked her for offering him his freedom, and told her that whether so, or otherwise, he should never cease to love her, because it was impossible not to love her.

“How queer it is, though,” said Vera, selecting a moment of general silence, “that Sonya and Nikolenka meet now and speak like strangers.”

Vera's observation was true, as were all her observations; but like most of her observations it made every one uncomfortable—not Sonya, Nikolay, and Natasha only crimsoned; the countess, too, who was afraid of her son's love for Sonya as a possible obstacle to his making a brilliant marriage, blushed like a girl.

To Rostov's surprise, Denisov in his new uniform, pomaded and perfumed, was quite as dashing a figure in a drawing-room as on the field of battle, and was polite to the ladies and gentlemen as Rostov had never expected to see him.

一八○六年初，尼古拉·罗斯托夫回家休假。杰尼索夫也正前往沃罗涅日城家中，罗斯托夫劝他同去莫斯科，并在他们家中住下。杰尼索夫在倒数第二站遇见一位同事，和他一起喝了三瓶葡萄酒，于是就挨近罗斯托夫，躺在驿用雪橇底部。虽然道路坎坷不平，但是当他驶近莫斯科时，他还没有睡醒。罗斯托夫愈益趋近莫斯科，他就愈益失去耐心了。

“快到了吗？快到了吗？哎呀，这些讨厌的街道、小商店、白面包、路灯和出租马车！”当他们已经在边防哨所登记了假条，驶入莫斯科时，罗斯托夫想道。

“杰尼索夫，我们已经到了！他还在睡呀！”他说道，把全身向前探出来，好像他希望用这个姿势来加快雪橇行驶的速度。杰尼索夫并没有回答。

“你看，这就是十字路拐角，车夫扎哈尔时常在这里停车。你看，他就是扎哈尔，还是那匹马。这就是大家常去购买蜜糖饼干的铺子。喂！快到了吗？”

“朝哪幢大楼走呢？”驿站马车夫问。

“就是街道的尽头，向那幢大楼走过去，怎么看不见！这就是我们的楼房。”罗斯托夫说道，“这不就是我们的楼房么！”

“杰尼索夫！杰尼索夫！马上就到了。”

杰尼索夫抬起头，咳嗽几声清清喉咙，什么话也没有回答。

“德米特里，”罗斯托夫把脸转向那个坐在车夫座上的仆人说，“这不就是我们家里的灯光么？”

“是的，少爷。老爷书斋里射出了灯光。”

“还没有睡吗？啊？你认为怎样？”

“留神，你别忘了，你马上给我拿件骠骑兵穿的新上衣来。”罗斯托夫抚摸着最近蓄起来的胡髭，补充说。

“喂，你快赶吧，”他对驿站马车夫喊道。“瓦夏，醒醒吧。”

他把脸转向那个又低下头来打着盹儿的杰尼索夫说。

“喂，你快赶吧，给你三个卢布喝酒，快赶吧！”当那雪橇开到离门口只有三幢房子那样远的地方，罗斯托夫喊道。他好像觉得，那几匹马还没有起步。后来那辆雪橇向右转，开到了门口，罗斯托夫看见了灰泥已经脱落的屋檐、台阶、人行道上的柱子。他在驶行时就从雪橇中跳了出来，向门斗跑去。屋子不动地屹立着，现出漠不关心的样子，仿佛无论什么人走进屋里来都与它毫不相干似的。门斗里没有人影了。

“我的天啊！一切都顺遂吧？”罗斯托夫想了想，心里极度紧张地停了片刻，旋即经过门斗和他熟悉的、歪歪斜斜的梯子拼命地往前跑。门拉手很不干净，伯爵夫人因此时常大发雷霆，然而就是那个门拉手，仍然是那样轻而易举地给拉开了。

接待室里点着一根很明亮的蜡烛。

米哈伊洛老头儿睡在大木箱上。随从的仆役普罗科菲力气很大，掀得起马车的尾部，他坐着，用布条编织着鞋子。他望望敞开的那扇门，他的冷淡的昏昏欲睡的表情忽然变得又惊恐又喜悦了。

“我的老天爷！年轻的伯爵！”他认出年轻的伯爵后大声喊道。“这是怎么回事？我亲爱的！”普罗科菲激动得浑身颤栗，急忙地向客厅门前冲去，也许是想去禀告，但看来他又改变了主意，走了回来，就俯在少爷的肩膀上。

“大家都很健康吗？”罗斯托夫挣脱他的一只手问道。

“谢天谢地！还是要谢天谢地！刚才吃过了饭啊！大人，让我来看看您！”

“都很顺遂么？”

“谢天谢地，谢天谢地！”

罗斯托夫完全忘记了杰尼索夫，他并不希望有人抢在前头去禀告，于是脱下皮袄，踮着脚尖跑进这个昏暗的大厅。样样东西还是老样子，还是那几张铺着绿呢面的牌桌，还是那个带有灯罩的枝形吊灯架，但是有人看见少爷了，他还没有来得及跑到客厅，就有什么人风驰电掣似的从侧门飞奔出来，拥抱他亲吻他。还有另一个、第三个这样的人从另一扇、从第三扇门里跳出来，仍然是拥抱，仍然是接吻，可以听见叫喊，可以看见愉快的眼泪。他不能分辨哪个人是父亲，他在哪里，哪个人是娜塔莎，哪个人是彼佳。大家同时叫喊，说话，同时吻他。只有母亲一人不在他们之中，这一点他是想到了。

“可是我呢，不晓得……尼古卢什卡……我的亲人！”“瞧，他……我们的……我的亲人，科利亚①……全变了！

……没有蜡烛啊！把茶端来！”

①科利亚和尼古卢什卡都是尼古拉的爱称。

“你要吻吻我吧！”

“我的心肝……吻吻我吧。”

索尼娅、娜塔莎、彼佳、安娜·米哈伊洛夫娜、薇拉、老伯爵都在拥抱他，男女仆人挤满了几个房间，说东道西，高兴得叫起来了。

彼佳紧紧搂住他的一双腿，悬起来了。

“吻吻我吧！”他喊道。

娜塔莎叫他稍稍弯下腰来凑近她，在他脸上热烈地吻了好几下，然后跳到旁边去，她拉着他的骠骑兵上装的下摆，像只山羊似的在原地蹦蹦跳跳，发出刺耳的尖叫声。

四面都是闪烁着愉快的眼泪的、爱抚的眼睛，四面都是寻找接吻的嘴唇。

索尼娅满面通红，俨如大红布一般，她也握着他的手，喜形于色，幸福的目光投射于她所企盼的他那对一睹为快的眼睛。索尼娅今年已满十六岁了，她的相貌非常俊美，尤其是在这个幸福的、热情洋溢的时刻。她目不转睛地瞧着他，面露微笑，快要屏住呼吸了。他怀着感谢的心情望望她，但是他还在等待和寻找什么人。老伯爵夫人尚未走出门，一阵步履声终于从门里传出来了。脚步是那么迅速，这不可能是他的母亲的脚步。

但是她穿上一件他不在家时缝制的他还没有见过的新连衣裙。大家都从他身边走开，于是他向她跟前跑去。当他们迎面走近的时候，她嚎啕大哭，倒在他怀里。她抬不起头来，只是把脸贴在他那件骠骑兵制服的冷冰冰的绶带上。没有人注意杰尼索夫、他走进房来，伫立着，一面注视母子二人，一面不停地揩拭眼泪。

“我叫做瓦西里·杰尼索夫，是您儿子的朋友。”他向那个疑惑地打量着他的伯爵自我介绍时说道。

“欢迎光临，晓得，晓得，”伯爵在抱着杰尼索夫亲吻时说，“尼古卢什卡写了信……娜塔莎，薇拉，他就是杰尼索夫。”

还是那几张幸福的、热情洋溢的面孔朝那毛茸茸的杰尼索夫的身躯转过来，把他围在中间了。

“亲爱的，杰尼索夫！”娜塔莎得意忘形，发出刺耳的尖声，一下子跑到杰尼索夫跟前，抱住他吻了吻。大家都对娜塔莎的举止感到困惑不解。杰尼索夫也涨红了脸，但他微微一笑，握住了娜塔莎的手吻了吻。

杰尼索夫被领到给他准备的房里，而罗斯托夫一家人围住尼古卢什卡聚集在摆有沙发的休息室里。

老伯爵夫人坐在他身旁，没有松开她每分钟要吻的他的一只手，聚集在他们周围的其他人正在观察他的每个动作，谛听他的每句话，寻视他的目光，并用欣喜而爱抚的眼睛直盯着他。小弟弟和姐姐们正在争论，他们争先恐后地要坐在靠近他的地方，只为着端茶、拿手帕和烟斗的事而争夺不休。

罗斯托夫受到众人的爱抚，因而感到无比幸福，但是他们会面的第一瞬间是那样欢乐，以致现在他觉得幸福还不足，他还在、还在、还在期待着什么。

翌日早晨，旅途劳累的人都睡到九点多钟。

前面的房间里，乱七八糟地放着马刀、手提包、图囊、打开的箱笼、邋遢的靴子。两双擦得干干净净的带有马刺的皮靴刚刚摆放在墙边。几个仆人端来了脸盆、刮脸用的热水和几件洗刷干净的衣裳。房里发散着烟草和男人的气息。

“嗨，格里什卡，把烟斗拿来！”瓦西里·杰尼索夫用那嘶哑的嗓音喊道，“罗斯托夫，起床吧！”

罗斯托夫揩着困得睁不开的眼睛，从那睡得热呼呼的枕头上抬起他那蓬乱的头。

“怎么，太晚了吗？”

“很晚了，九点多钟了。”娜塔莎拉大嗓门回答，隔壁房里传来了浆硬的衣裳发出的沙沙响声、低语声和少女的笑声，在略微敞开的房里闪现出什么蔚蓝色的东西、绦带、黑色的头发和愉快的面孔。这就是娜塔莎、索尼娅和彼佳，他们来看看他是否起床。

“尼古连卡，起床吧！”房门口又传来娜塔莎的说话声。

“我马上起来！”

这时候彼佳在第一个房间里看见了几柄马刀，就急忙拿了起来，他感到异常高兴，平常孩子们看见威武的长兄时也有同样的感受，他打开房门，竟然忘记姐姐们在看见脱光衣服的男人时会觉得有失体统呢。

“这是你的马刀吗？”他喊道。少女们躲到一边去。杰尼索夫睁大了一双惊恐的眼睛，把他自己的毛茸茸的脚藏进被窝里，他看着同事的眼色，求他帮个忙。门打开了，把彼佳放进来了，门又合上了。门后可以听见一阵笑声。

“尼古连卡，穿上长罩衫出来吧。”传来娜塔莎的说话声。

“这是你的马刀吗？”彼佳问道，“要不然，这柄是您的？”他露出低三下四而且恭敬的神情向面目黧黑的大胡子杰尼索夫说。

罗斯托夫赶快穿起皮靴，披上长罩衫，走出去了。娜塔莎穿上一只带有马刺的皮靴，又把脚伸进另一只皮靴中。当他走出去的时候，索尼娅正在转圈子，刚刚想鼓起连衣裙行个屈膝礼。这两个女人穿着同样的天蓝色的新连衣裙，都显得娇嫩，面露红晕，十分高兴。索尼娅跑开了，娜塔莎挽着哥哥的手，把他领到摆满沙发的休息室，二人开始聊天了。他们来不及互相询问和回答千万个只有他们二人才关心的琐碎问题。娜塔莎听见他说的和她说的每一句话都露出笑意，之所以如此，不是因为他们说的话滑稽可笑，而是因为她心中觉得高兴，她禁不住乐得放声大笑了。

“啊，多么美妙，太美妙了！”对她听到的一切，她都附带这么说。罗斯托夫感觉到，在热烈的抚爱之光的影响下，一年半以后头一次在他的心中和脸上流露着自从他走出家门后未曾流露的童稚的微笑。

“不，听听吧，”她说道，“你现在完全是个男人么？你是我的哥哥，使我感到无比高兴，”她摸了摸他的胡髭，“我很想知道，你们男子汉是怎么样的？是不是都像我们这个样子呢？不是一样吗？”

“索尼娅干嘛跑掉了？”罗斯托夫问道。

“是的，说来话长了！你跟索尼娅交谈称呼‘你'还是称呼‘您'？”

“看情形。”罗斯托夫说。

“请你称呼她‘您'，以后告诉你。”

“这是怎么回事？”

“喏，我现在就来说给你听。你晓得，索尼娅是我的朋友，是那样一个挚友，我为她宁可烧伤自己的胳膊。请你看看，”她卷起细纱布袖筒，让他看看她那瘦长而柔软的小手臂上，即是在肩膀以下，比肘弯高得多的部位上的一块红印（这个部位常被舞会服装遮蔽着）。

“我烧伤这个地方，是为着向她证明我的爱心。就是把那直尺搁在火上烧红，向这个部位一按！”

在从前作过教室的房间里，罗斯托夫坐在扶手带有弹簧垫的沙发上，两眼望着娜塔莎的极为活泼的明眸，他又进入了他自己家庭的儿童世界，这个世界除他而外对任何人都毫无意义，而他觉得这是人生的最佳享受，至于借助直尺烙伤手臂藉以表明爱心一事，他也觉得不无好处。他明白这一点并不因此而感到惊奇。

“那又怎样呢？只有这些么？”他问道。

“嘿，我们都很和睦，都很和睦！用直尺烙伤手臂，这要什么紧，虽是愚蠢的事情，但是我们永远是朋友。她一爱上什么人，就会爱上一辈子；可是我不明白这一点，我就立刻置之脑后了。”

“那怎样呢？”

“是啊，她这样爱我，也爱你。”娜塔莎忽然涨红了脸，“你还记得，离别之前……她说，要你忘记这一切……她说：我永远爱他，但愿他自由安乐。要知道，真是太妙了，太高尚了！对吗？太高尚了？对吗？”娜塔莎这么严肃而且激动地询问他，由此可见，她从前诉说这番话时她眼睛里噙满着泪水。罗斯托夫陷入沉思了。

“我无论如何也不会收回自己的诺言，”他说，“以后也不会这样做的，索尼娅长得这样美丽，什么样的蠢人想要放弃自己的幸福呢？”

“不，不，”娜塔莎喊道，“这件事我和她已经谈过了。我们知道你会说出这番话。但是不能这样做，你要明白，假如你要这么说——认为你自己受到诺言的束缚，那么就好像她是存心说出这番话的。由此可见，你毕竟是迫不得已才娶她为妻的，那就完全不像话了。”

罗斯托夫看见，这一切都是他们别具心裁构想出来的。索尼娅昨天就凭她的姿色使他惊倒。今天瞥见她之后，他觉得她更漂亮了。显然她是个狂热地爱他的（对于这一点他毫不怀疑）年方十六岁的富有迷力的姑娘。干嘛他现在能不爱她，甚至于能不娶她，罗斯托夫这样想，但是……但是……现在还有多少其他乐事和活动啊！“是的，她们构想得多么美妙。”

他思忖了一下，“仍然要做个自由人。”

“啊，太美妙了。”他说，“我们以后再谈吧。啊，看见你我多么高兴！”他补充一句话。

“嗯，你为什么没有在鲍里斯面前变节呢？”哥哥问道。

“这是愚蠢的事啊！”娜塔莎含着笑意喊道，“无论是他，还是什么人，我既不考虑，也不想知道。”

“原来是这么一回事！那你要怎么样呢？”

“我吗？”娜塔莎再问一遍，幸福的微笑使她容光焕发。

“你看见迪波尔了么？”

“没有。”

“你见过闻名的舞蹈家迪波尔么？那你就没法弄明白。你看，我是这么跳的。”娜塔莎像跳舞那样撩起裙子，把双臂蜷曲成圆形，跑开几步，转过来，身体腾空跃起，两脚互相拍击，踮着脚尖儿走了几步。

“瞧，我不是站住了么？”她说，但是她踮着脚尖站不稳了。“你看我就是这样跳的！我永远不嫁给任何人，我要当个舞蹈家。不过我请你不要告诉任何人。”

罗斯托夫嗓音洪亮地、欢快地哈哈大笑，致使隔壁房里的杰尼索夫忌妒起来，娜塔莎忍耐不住了，于是和他一块放声大笑。

“不，你看妙不妙？”她总是这样说。

“很妙。你已经不愿嫁给鲍里斯吧？”

娜塔莎涨红了脸。

“我不愿意嫁给任何人。当我看见他时，我要对他说的也是同样的话。”

“原来是这样！”罗斯托夫说道。

“是呀，这全是废话，”娜塔莎继续说些没意思的话，“怎么，杰尼索夫是个好人吧？”她问道。

“他是个好人。”

“嗯，再见，去穿衣服吧。杰尼索夫，他是个可怕的人？”

“为什么可怕呢？”尼古拉问，“不，瓦西卡是个很好的人。”

“你把他叫做瓦西卡吗？……真奇怪。怎么，他挺好吗？”

“挺好。”

“喂，快点来喝茶。大伙儿一块喝茶。”

娜塔莎就像舞蹈家一样，踮起脚尖儿从房间里走过来，她面露笑容，只有年方十五岁的幸福的少女才是这样笑容可掬的。罗斯托夫在客厅里遇见索尼娅后，他的脸涨得通红了。他不知道怎样对待她。昨天在会面的欢天喜地的第一瞬间他们互相接吻了，但是今天他们觉得这样做是不行的，他觉得母亲、姐妹们，大家都带着疑惑的目光注视着他，等待他用什么方式对待她。他吻了一下她的手，对她称谓“您”——“索尼娅”。但是他们的目光相遇之后，却互相称谓“你”，目光温存地接吻。她借助目光请求他原谅，因为她敢于通过使者娜塔莎向他提及他的承诺，并且感谢他的眷恋。他也用目光感谢她，因为她同意他所提出的个人自由的建议，并且说，无论情况怎么样，他将永远地爱她，不能不爱她。

“可是这多么古怪，”薇拉选择大家沉默的时刻说，“索尼娅和尼古连卡现在如同陌生人，会面时称呼‘您'。”薇拉的评论有如她所有的评论，都是合乎情理的，可是也正如她的大部分评论一样，大家听来都觉得很不自在，不仅索尼娅、尼古拉和娜塔莎，而且连老伯爵夫人也像个少女一样涨红了脸，因为她害怕儿子去爱索尼娅，会使他失去名门望族的配偶。罗斯托夫感到惊奇的是，杰尼索夫穿着一身新制服，涂了发油，喷了香水，就像上阵似的，穿着得十分考究，他摆出这个样子，在客厅里出现了，他对女士和男子都献殷勤，以致罗斯托夫怎么也没料到他竟有这副样子。