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It was long since Rostov had felt such enjoyment from music
as he did that day. But no sooner had Natasha finished her barcarolle
than reality again presented itself. He got up without saying
a word and went downstairs to his own room. A quarter of an hour
later the old count came in from his Club, cheerful and contented.
Nicholas, hearing him drive up, went to meet him.
"Well- had a good time?" said the old count, smiling
gaily and proudly at his son.
Nicholas tried to say "Yes," but could not: and
he nearly burst into sobs. The count was lighting his pipe and
did not notice his son's condition.
"Ah, it can't be avoided!" thought Nicholas, for
the first and last time. And suddenly, in the most casual tone,
which made him feel ashamed feel of himself, he said, as if merely
asking his father to let him have the carriage to drive to town:
"Papa, I have come on a matter of business. I was nearly
forgetting. I need some money."
"Dear me!" said his father, who was in a specially
good humor. "I told you it would not be enough. How much?"
"Very much," said Nicholas flushing, and with a
stupid careless smile, for which he was long unable to forgive
himself, "I have lost a little, I mean a good deal, a great
deal- forty three thousand."
"What! To whom?... Nonsense!" cried the count, suddenly
reddening with an apoplectic flush over neck and nape as old people
do.
"I promised to pay tomorrow," said Nicholas.
"Well!..." said the old count, spreading out his
arms and sinking helplessly on the sofa.
"It can't be helped It happens to everyone!" said
the son, with a bold, free, and easy tone, while in his soul he
regarded himself as a worthless scoundrel whose whole life could
not atone for his crime. He longed to kiss his father's hands
and kneel to beg his forgiveness, but said, in a careless and
even rude voice, that it happens to everyone!
The old count cast down his eyes on hearing his son's words
and began bustlingly searching for something.
"Yes, yes," he muttered, "it will be difficult,
I fear, difficult to raise... happens to everybody! Yes, who has
not done it?"
And with a furtive glance at his son's face, the count went
out of the room.... Nicholas had been prepared for resistance,
but had not at all expected this.
"Papa! Pa-pa!" he called after him, sobbing, "forgive
me!" And seizing his father's hand, he pressed it to his
lips and burst into tears.
While father and son were having their explanation, the mother
and daughter were having one not less important. Natasha came
running to her mother, quite excited.
"Mamma!... Mamma!... He has made me..."
"Made what?"
"Made, made me an offer, Mamma! Mamma!" she exclaimed.
The countess did not believe her ears. Denisov had proposed.
To whom? To this chit of a girl, Natasha, who not so long ago
was playing with dolls and who was still having lessons.
"Don't, Natasha! What nonsense!" she said, hoping
it was a joke.
"Nonsense, indeed! I am telling you the fact," said
Natasha indignantly. "I come to ask you what to do, and you
call it 'nonsense!'"
The countess shrugged her shoulders.
"If it true that Monsieur Denisov has made you a proposal,
tell him he is a fool, that's all!"
"No, he's not a fool!" replied Natasha indignantly
and seriously.
"Well then, what do you want? You're all in love nowadays.
Well, if you are in love, marry him!" said the countess,
with a laugh of annoyance. "Good luck to you!"
"No, Mamma, I'm not in love with him, I suppose I'm not
in love with him."
"Well then, tell him so."
"Mamma, are you cross? Don't be cross, dear! Is it my
fault?"
"No, but what is it, my dear? Do you want me to go and
tell him?" said the countess smiling.
"No, I will do it myself, only tell me what to say. It's
all very well for you," said Natasha, with a responsive smile.
"You should have seen how he said it! I know he did not mean
to say it, but it came out accidently."
"Well, all the same, you must refuse him."
"No, I mustn't. I am so sorry for him! He's so nice."
"Well then, accept his offer. It's high time for you
to be married," answered the countess sharply and sarcastically.
"No, Mamma, but I'm so sorry for him. I don't know how
I'm to say it."
"And there's nothing for you to say. I shall speak to
him myself," said the countess, indignant that they should
have dared to treat this little Natasha as grown up.
"No, not on any account! I will tell him myself, and
you'll listen at the door," and Natasha ran across the drawing
room to the dancing hall, where Denisov was sitting on the same
chair by the clavichord with his face in his hands.
He jumped up at the sound of her light step.
"Nataly," he said, moving with rapid steps toward
her, "decide my fate. It is in your hands."
"Vasili Dmitrich, I'm so sorry for you!... No, but you
are so nice... but it won't do...not that... but as a friend,
I shall always love you."
Denisov bent over her hand and she heard strange sounds she
did not understand. She kissed his rough curly black head. At
this instant, they heard the quick rustle of the countess' dress.
She came up to them.
"Vasili Dmitrich, I thank you for the honor," she
said, with an embarrassed voice, though it sounded severe to Denisov-
"but my daughter is so young, and I thought that, as my son's
friend, you would have addressed yourself first to me. In that
case you would not have obliged me to give this refusal."
"Countess..." said Denisov, with downcast eyes and
a guilty face. He tried to say more, but faltered.
Natasha could not remain calm, seeing him in such a plight.
She began to sob aloud.
"Countess, I have done w'ong," Denisov went on in
an unsteady voice, "but believe me, I so adore your daughter
and all your family that I would give my life twice over..."
He looked at the countess, and seeing her severe face said: "Well,
good-by, Countess," and kissing her hand, he left the room
with quick resolute strides, without looking at Natasha.
Next day Rostov saw Denisov off. He not wish to stay another
day in Moscow. All Denisov's Moscow friends gave him a farewell
entertainment at the gypsies', with the result that he had no
recollection of how he was put in the sleigh or of the first three
stages of his journey.
After Denisov's departure, Rostov spent another fortnight
in Moscow, without going out of the house, waiting for the money
his father could not at once raise, and he spent most of his time
in the girls' room.
Sonya was more tender and devoted to him than ever. It was
as if she wanted to show him that his losses were an achievement
that made her love him all the more, but Nicholas now considered
himself unworthy of her.
He filled the girls' albums with verses and music, and having
at last sent Dolokhov the whole forty-three thousand rubles and
received his receipt, he left at the end of November, without
taking leave of any of his acquaintances, to overtake his regiment
which was already in Poland.
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