Natasha was now sixteen, and it was the year 1809, the year she had counted forward to on her fingers with Boris after they had kissed four years ago. She hadn’t seen him since that day. When Boris’s name came up she would speak about him quite openly to Sonya and her mother, as if what had passed between them was over and done with, a bit of childish nonsense long-forgotten not worth talking about. But in the depths of her soul she was still worried – was her engagement to Boris just a joke or was it a solemn and binding promise?
Ever since Boris had left Moscow in 1805 to go into the army he hadn’t seen any of the Rostovs. He had been in Moscow several times and had sometimes passed quite close to Otradnoye, but he had never once dropped in on them.
Natasha sometimes suspected that he was avoiding her, and her suspicions were borne out by the lugubrious tone in which he was referred to by her elders.
‘Old friends are soon forgotten nowadays,’ the countess would say just after Boris’s name had been mentioned.
Anna Mikhaylovna had also been a less frequent visitor of late. There was now a marked dignity in her bearing and she missed no opportunity to refer with gratitude but no little triumph to her son’s abilities and the brilliant career he was cutting out for himself. When the Rostovs arrived in Petersburg, Boris did call to see them.
It was not without emotion that he drove to their house. Those memories of Natasha were Boris’s most poetic memories. But at the same time, he was calling on them absolutely determined to make it clear to her and her relatives that the childish vows between Natasha and him could not be binding on either of them. Because of his closeness to Countess Bezukhov he now had a brilliant position in society, and he had a brilliant position in the service because of the patronage of a bigwig he was well in with, and now he was beginning to work on the possibility of marrying one of the richest heiresses in Petersburg, plans which might easily come to fruition. When Boris came into the Rostovs’ drawing-room, Natasha was up in her room. Hearing of his arrival she almost ran down to the drawing-room, red in the face and radiant with a more than friendly smile.
Boris was still thinking of the little Natasha he had known four years ago dressed in a short frock, with brilliant black eyes darting out from under her curls, all wild whoops and girlish giggles, so when he saw a totally different Natasha coming into the room he was quite taken aback, and the surprise and delight showed on his face. Natasha was thrilled to see him looking like that.
‘Well, do you recognize your little playmate and sweetheart?’ said the countess. Boris kissed Natasha’s hand and said he was surprised how much she had changed.
‘You’ve grown so pretty!’
‘I should hope so!’ said the glint in Natasha’s eyes.
‘Does Papa look any older?’ was what she asked.
Natasha sat there in silence, taking no part in the conversation between Boris and her mother but subjecting her childhood suitor to the minutest scrutiny. He could feel those eager, tender eyes boring into him, and once or twice he glanced across in her direction.
Boris’s uniform, his spurs, his tie, his hairstyle – everything about him was the last word in fashion and absolutely
