Natasha put her hand on her mother's mouth.
'About Boris... I know,' she said seriously; 'that's what I have come about. Don't say it--I know. No, do tell me!' and she removed her hand. 'Tell me, Mamma! He's nice?'
'Natasha, you are sixteen. At your age I was married. You say Boris is nice. He is very nice, and I love him like a son. But what then?... What are you thinking about? You have quite turned his head, I can see that....'
As she said this the countess looked round at her daughter. Natasha was lying looking steadily straight before her at one of the mahogany sphinxes carved on the corners of the bedstead, so that the countess only saw her daughter's face in profile. That face struck her by its peculiarly serious and concentrated expression.
Natasha was listening and considering.
'Well, what then?' said she.
'You have quite turned his head, and why? What do you want of him? You know you can't marry him.'
'Why not?' said Natasha, without changing her position.
'Because he is young, because he is poor, because he is a relation... and because you yourself don't love him.'
'How do you know?'
'I know. It is not right, darling!'
'But if I want to...' said Natasha.
'Leave off talking nonsense,' said the countess.
'But if I want to...'
'Natasha, I am in earnest...'
Natasha did not let her finish. She drew the countess' large hand to her, kissed it on the back and then on the palm, then again turned it over and began kissing first one knuckle, then the space between the knuckles, then the next knuckle, whispering, 'January, February, March, April, May. Speak, Mamma, why don't you say anything? Speak!' said she, turning to her mother, who was tenderly gazing at her daughter and in that contemplation seemed to have forgotten all she had wished to say.
'It won't do, my love! Not everyone will understand this friendship dating from your childish days, and to see him so intimate with you may injure you in the eyes of other young men who visit us, and above all it torments him for nothing. He may already have found a suitable and wealthy match, and now he's half crazy.'
'Crazy?' repeated Natasha.
'I'll tell you some things about myself. I had a cousin...'
'I know! Cyril Matveich... but he is old.'
'He was not always old. But this is what I'll do, Natasha, I'll have a talk with Boris. He need not come so often....'
'Why not, if he likes to?'
'Because I know it will end in nothing....'
'How can you know? No, Mamma, don't speak to him! What nonsense!' said Natasha in the tone of one being deprived of her property. 'Well, I won't marry, but let him come if he enjoys it and I enjoy it.' Natasha smiled and looked at her mother. 'Not to marry, but just so,' she added.
'How so, my pet?'
'Just so. There's no need for me to marry him. But... just so.'
'Just so, just so,' repeated the countess, and shaking all over, she went off into a good humored, unexpected, elderly laugh.
'Don't laugh, stop!' cried Natasha. 'You're shaking the whole bed! You're awfully like me, just such another giggler.... Wait...' and she seized the countess' hands and kissed a knuckle of the little finger, saying, 'June,' and continued, kissing, 'July, August,' on the other hand. 'But, Mamma, is he very much in love? What do you think? Was anybody ever so much in love with you? And he's very nice, very, very nice. Only not quite my taste--he is so narrow, like the dining-room clock.... Don't you understand? Narrow, you know--gray, light gray...'
'What rubbish you're talking!' said the countess.
Natasha continued: 'Don't you really understand? Nicholas would understand.... Bezukhov, now, is blue, dark- blue and red, and he is square.'
'You flirt with him too,' said the countess, laughing.
'No, he is a Freemason, I have found out. He is fine, dark-blue and red.... How can I explain it to you?'
'Little countess!' the count's voice called from behind the door. 'You're not asleep?' Natasha jumped up, snatched up her slippers, and ran barefoot to her own room.
It was a long time before she could sleep. She kept thinking that no one could understand all that she understood and all there was in her.
'Sonya?' she thought, glancing at that curled-up, sleeping little kitten with her enormous plait of hair. 'No, how could she? She's virtuous. She fell in love with Nicholas and does not wish to know anything more. Even Mamma does not understand. It is wonderful how clever I am and how... charming she is,' she went on, speaking of herself in the third person, and imagining it was some very wise man--the wisest and best of men--who was saying it of her. 'There is everything, everything in her,' continued this man. 'She is unusually intelligent, charming... and then she is pretty, uncommonly pretty, and agile--she swims and rides splendidly... and her voice! One can really say it's a wonderful voice!'
She hummed a scrap from her favorite opera by Cherubini, threw herself on her bed, laughed at the pleasant
