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untess Bezuhov； a brilliant position in the service； thanks to the protection of a great person whose confidence he had completely won； and he was beginning to make plans for marrying one of the richest heiresses in Petersburg； plans which might very easily be realised。 When Boris went into the Rostovs’ drawing…room； Natasha was in her own room。 On hearing of his arrival she almost ran with a flushed face into the drawing…room； radiant with a smile that was more than cordial。
Boris had thought of Natasha as the little girl he had known four years before in a short frock； with black eyes glancing under her curls； and a desperate； childish giggle； and so； when a quite different Natasha came in； he was taken aback and his face expressed surprise and admiration。 His expression delighted Natasha。
“Well； would you know your mischievous little playmate？” said the countess。 Boris kissed Natasha’s hand； and said he was surprised at the change in her。
“How pretty you have grown！”
“I should hope so！” was the answer in Natasha’s laughing eyes。
“And does papa look older？” she asked。
Natasha sat still； taking no part in the talk between Boris and her mother。 Silently and minutely she scrutinised the young man who had been her suitor in her childhood。 He felt oppressed by that persistent； friendly gaze； and glanced once or twice at her。
The uniform； the spurs； the tie； the way Boris had brushed his hair；—it was all fashionable and comme il faut。 That Natasha noticed at once。 He sat a little sideways on a low chair beside the countess； with his right hand smacking the exquisitely clean and perfectly fitting glove on his left。 He talked with a peculiar； refined compression of the lips about the divisions of the best society in Petersburg； with faint irony referred to old days in Moscow and old Moscow acquaintances。 Not unintentionally； as Natasha felt； he mentioned some of the highest aristocracy； alluded to the ambassador’s ball； at which he had been present； and to invitations from N。 N。 and from S。 S。
Natasha sat the whole time without speaking； looking up from under her brows at him。 Her eyes made Boris more and more uneasy and embarrassed。 He looked round more frequently at Natasha； and broke off in his sentences。 After staying no more than ten minutes he got up and took leave。 Still the same curious； challenging； and rather ironical eyes gazed at him。 After his first visit； Boris said to himself that Natasha was as attractive to him as she had been in the past； but that he must not give way to his feelings； because to marry her—a girl almost without fortune—would be the ruin of his career； and to renew their old relations without any intention of marriage would be dishonourable。 Boris resolved to avoid meeting Natasha； but in spite of this resolution he came a few days later； and began to come often； and to spend whole days at the Rostovs’。 He fancied that it was essential for him to have a frank explanation with Natasha； to tell her that all the past must be forgotten； that in spite of everything…she could not be his wife； that he had no means； and that they would never consent to her marrying him。 But he always failed to do so； and felt an awkwardness in approaching the subject。 Every day he became more and more entangled。 Natasha—so her mother and Sonya judged—seemed to be in love with Boris； as in the past。 She sang for him her favourite songs； showed him her album； made him write in it； would not let him refer to the past； making him feel how delightful she considered the present； and every day he went home in a whirl without having said what he meant to say； not knowing what he was doing； why he had come； and how it would end。 Boris gave up visiting Ellen； received reproachful notes every day from her； and still spent whole days together at the Rostovs’。
Chapter 13
ONE EVENING the old countess in her bed…jacket； without her false curls and with only one poor wisp of hair peeping out from under her white cotton nightcap； was bowing down on the carpet； sighing and moaning as she repeated her evening prayers。 Her door creaked； and Natasha； also in a bed…jacket； ran in； bare…legged； with her feet in slippers； and her hair in curl papers。 The countess looked round and frowned。 She was repeating her last prayer。 “Can it be this couch will be my bier？” Her devotional mood was dispelled。 Natasha； flushed and eager； stopped suddenly short in her rapid movement as she saw her mother at her prayers。 She half…sat down and unconsciously put out her tongue at herself。
Seeing that her mother was still praying； she ran on tiptoe to the bed； and rapidly slipping one little foot against the other； pushed off her slippers and sprang on to that couch which the countess in her prayer feared might become her bier。 That couch was a high feather…bed； with five pillows； each smaller than the one below。 Natasha skipped in； sank into the feather…bed； rolled over towards the side； and began snuggling up under the quilt； tucking herself up； bending her knees up to her chin； kicking out and giving a faintly audible giggle as she alternately hid her face under the quilt and peeped out at her mother。 The countess had finished her prayers； and was approaching her bed with a stern face； but seeing that Natasha was playing bo…peep with her she smiled her good…natured； weak smile。
“Come； come； come！” said the mother。
“Mamma； may I speak； yes？” said Natasha。 “Come； under the chin； one； and now another； and enough。” And she clutched at her mother’s neck and kissed her favourite place on her chin。 In Natasha’s behaviour to her mother there was a superficial roughness of manner； but she had a natural tact and knack of doing things； so that； however she snatched her mother in her arms； she always managed so that she was not hurt； nor uncomfortable； nor displeased by it。
“Well； what is it to…night？” said her mother； settling herself in the pillows and waiting for Natasha； who had already rolled over twice； to lie down by her side under the bedclothes； to put out her arms and assume a serious expression。
These visits of Natasha to her mother at night before the count came home from the club were one of the greatest pleasures both of mother and daughter。
“What is it to…night？ And I want to talk to you…” Natasha put her hand on her mother’s lips。
“About Boris…I know；” she said seriously； “that’s what I have come about。 Don’t say it； I know。 No； do say it！” She took her hand away。 “Say it； mamma！ He’s nice； eh？”
“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 do you want？ …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 a corner of the bedstead； so that the countess could only see her daughter’s face in profile。 Her face impressed the countess by its strikingly serious and concentrated expression。
Natasha was listening and considering。
“Well； so what then？” she said。
“You have completely turned his head； and what for？ What do you want o