“What do you mean? For God's sake. . . If you tell, you are my enemy!” declared Natásha. “You want me to be miserable, you want us to be separated. . .”
When she saw Natásha's fright, Sónya shed tears of shame and pity for her friend.
“But what has happened between you?” she asked. “What has he said to you? Why doesn't he come to the house?”
Natásha did not answer her questions.
“For God's sake, Sónya, don't tell anyone, don't torture me,” Natásha entreated. “Remember no one ought to interfere in such matters! I have confided in you. . .”
“But why this secrecy? Why doesn't he come to the house?” asked Sónya. “Why doesn't he openly ask for your hand? You know Prince Andrew gave you complete freedom—if it is really so; but I don't believe it! Natásha, have you considered what these secret reasons can be?”
Natásha looked at Sónya with astonishment. Evidently this question presented itself to her mind for the first time and she did not know how to answer it.
“I don't know what the reasons are. But there must be reasons!”
Sónya sighed and shook her head incredulously.
“If there were reasons. . .” she began.
But Natásha, guessing her doubts, interrupted her in alarm.
“Sónya, one can't doubt him! One can't, one can't! Don't you understand?” she cried.
“Does he love you?”
“Does he love me?” Natásha repeated with a smile of pity at her friend's lack of comprehension. “Why, you have read his letter and you have seen him.”
“But if he is dishonorable?”
“He! dishonorable? If you only knew!” exclaimed Natásha.
“If he is an honorable man he should either declare his intentions or cease seeing you; and if you won't do this, I will. I will write to him, and I will tell Papa!” said Sónya resolutely.
“But I can't live without him!” cried Natásha.
“Natásha, I don't understand you. And what are you saying! Think of your father and of Nicholas.”
“I don't want anyone, I don't love anyone but him. How dare you say he is dishonorable? Don't you know that I love him?” screamed Natásha. “Go away, Sónya! I don't want to quarrel with you, but go, for God's sake go! You see how I am suffering!” Natásha cried angrily, in a voice of despair and repressed irritation. Sónya burst into sobs and ran from the room.
Natásha went to the table and without a moment's reflection wrote that answer to Princess Mary which she had been unable to write all the morning. In this letter she said briefly that all their misunderstandings were at an end; that availing herself of the magnanimity of Prince Andrew who when he went abroad had given her her freedom, she begged Princess Mary to forget everything and forgive her if she had been to blame toward her, but that she could not be his wife. At that moment this all seemed quite easy, simple, and clear to Natásha.
On Friday the Rostóvs were to return to the country, but on Wednesday the count went with the prospective purchaser to his estate near Moscow.
On the day the count left, Sónya and Natásha were invited to a big dinner party at the Karágins', and Márya Dmítrievna took them there. At that party Natásha again met Anatole, and Sónya noticed that she spoke to him, trying not to be overheard, and that all through dinner she was more agitated than ever. When they got home Natásha was the first to begin the explanation Sónya expected.
“There, Sónya, you were talking all sorts of nonsense about him,” Natásha began in a mild voice such as children use when they wish to be praised. “We have had an explanation today.”
“Well, what happened? What did he say? Natásha, how glad I am you're not angry with me! Tell me everything—the whole truth. What did he say?”
Natásha became thoughtful.
“Oh, Sónya, if you knew him as I do! He said . . . He asked me what I had promised Bolkónski. He was glad I was free to refuse him.”
Sónya sighed sorrowfully.
“But you haven't refused Bolkónski?” said she.
“Perhaps I have. Perhaps all is over between me and Bolkónski. Why do you think so badly of me?”
“I don't think anything, only I don't understand this. . .”
“Wait a bit, Sónya, you'll understand everything. You'll see what a man he is! Now don't think badly of me or of him. I don't think badly of anyone: I love and pity everybody. But what am I to do?”
