CHAPTER XII

Natásha was sixteen and it was the year 1809, the very year to which she
had counted on her fingers with Borís after they had kissed four years
ago. Since then she had not seen him. Before Sónya and her mother, if
Borís happened to be mentioned, she spoke quite freely of that episode as
of some childish, long-forgotten matter that was not worth mentioning. But
in the secret depths of her soul the question whether her engagement to
Borís was a jest or an important, binding promise tormented her.

Since Borís left Moscow in 1805 to join the army he had not seen the
Rostóvs. He had been in Moscow several times, and had passed near
Otrádnoe, but had never been to see them.

Sometimes it occurred to Natásha that he did not wish to see her, and this
conjecture was confirmed by the sad tone in which her elders spoke of him.

“Nowadays old friends are not remembered,” the countess would say when
Borís was mentioned.

Anna Mikháylovna also had of late visited them less frequently, seemed to
hold herself with particular dignity, and always spoke rapturously and
gratefully of the merits of her son and the brilliant career on which he
had entered. When the Rostóvs came to Petersburg Borís called on them.

He drove to their house in some agitation. The memory of Natásha was his
most poetic recollection. But he went with the firm intention of letting
her and her parents feel that the childish relations between himself and
Natásha could not be binding either on her or on him. He had a brilliant
position in society thanks to his intimacy with Countess Bezúkhova, a
brilliant position in the service thanks to the patronage of an important
personage whose complete confidence he enjoyed, and he was beginning to
make plans for marrying one of the richest heiresses in Petersburg, plans
which might very easily be realized. When he entered the Rostóvs’ drawing
room Natásha was in her own room. When she heard of his arrival she almost
ran into the drawing room, flushed and beaming with a more than cordial
smile.

Borís remembered Natásha in a short dress, with dark eyes shining from
under her curls and boisterous, childish laughter, as he had known her
four years before; and so he was taken aback when quite a different
Natásha entered, and his face expressed rapturous astonishment. This
expression on his face pleased Natásha.

“Well, do you recognize your little madcap playmate?” asked the countess.

Borís kissed Natásha’s hand and said that he was astonished at the change
in her.

“How handsome you have grown!”

“I should think so!” replied Natásha’s laughing eyes.

“And is Papa older?” she asked.

Natásha sat down and, without joining in Borís’ conversation with the
countess, silently and minutely studied her childhood’s suitor. He felt
the weight of that resolute and affectionate scrutiny and glanced at her
occasionally.

Borís’ uniform, spurs, tie, and the way his hair was brushed were all
comme il faut and in the latest fashion. This Natásha noticed at once. He
sat rather sideways in the armchair next to the countess, arranging with
his right hand the cleanest of gloves that fitted his left hand like a
skin, and he spoke with a particularly refined compression of his lips
about the amusements of the highest Petersburg society, recalling with
mild irony old times in Moscow and Moscow acquaintances. It was not
accidentally, Natásha felt, that he alluded, when speaking of the highest
aristocracy, to an ambassador’s ball he had attended, and to invitations
he had received from N.N. and S.S.

All this time Natásha sat silent, glancing up at him from under her brows.
This gaze disturbed and confused Borís more and more. He looked round more
frequently toward her, and broke off in what he was saying. He did not
stay more than ten minutes, then rose and took his leave. The same
inquisitive, challenging, and rather mocking eyes still looked at him.
After his first visit Borís said to himself that Natásha attracted him
just as much as ever, but that he must not yield to that feeling, because
to marry her, a girl almost without fortune, would mean ruin to his
career, while to renew their former relations without intending to marry
her would be dishonorable. Borís made up his mind to avoid meeting
Natásha, but despite that resolution he called again a few days later and
began calling often and spending whole days at the Rostóvs’. It seemed to
him that he ought to have an explanation with Natásha and tell her that
the old times must be forgotten, that in spite of everything… she could
not be his wife, that he had no means, and they would never let her marry
him. But he failed to do so and felt awkward about entering on such an
explanation. From day to day he became more and more entangled. It seemed
to her mother and Sónya that Natásha was in love with Borís as of old. She
sang him his favorite songs, showed him her album, making him write in it,
did not allow him to allude to the past, letting it be understood how
delightful was the present; and every day he went away in a fog, without
having said what he meant to, and not knowing what he was doing or why he
came, or how it would all end. He left off visiting Hélène and received
reproachful notes from her every day, and yet he continued to spend whole
days with the Rostóvs.