Next day Prince Andrew calls at a few houses he has not visited before, and among them at the Rostóvs', with whom he renewed acquaintance at the ball. Apart from considerations of politeness which demanded the call, he wants to see that original, eager girl who left such a pleasant impression on his mind, in her own home. Natásha is one of the first to meet him. She is wearing a dark-blue house dress in which he thinks her even prettier than in her ball dress. She and all the Rostóv family welcome him as an old friend, simply and cordially. The whole family, whom he had formerly judged severely, now seem to him to consist of excellent, simple, and kindly people. The old count's hospitality and good nature, which strike one especially in Petersburg as a pleasant surprise, are such that Andrew cannot refuse to stay to dinner. Yes, he thinks, they are capital people, who of course have not the slightest idea what a treasure they possess in Natásha, but they are kindly folk and form the best possible setting for this strikingly poetic, charming girl, overflowing with life.
In Natásha he is conscious of a strange world completely alien to him and brimful of joys unknown to him, a different world that in the Otrádnoe avenue and at the window that moonlight night had already begun to disconcert him. Now this world disconcerts him no longer and is no longer alien, but he himself having entered it finds in it a new enjoyment. After dinner Natásha, at his request, goes to the clavichord and begins singing. Andrew stands by a window talking to the ladies and listens. In the midst of a phrase he ceases speaking and suddenly feels tears choking him, a thing he had thought impossible for him. He looks at Natásha as she sings, and something new and joyful stirs in his soul. He feels happy and at the same time sad. He has absolutely nothing to weep about yet he is ready to weep. What about? His former love? The little princess? His disillusionments? His hopes for the future? Yes and no. The chief reason is a sudden, vivid sense of the terrible contrast between something infinitely great and illimitable within him and that limited and material something that he, and even she, was. This contrast weighs on and yet cheers him while she sings. As soon as she has finished she goes up to him and asks how he liked her voice. She asks this and then becomes confused, feeling that she ought not to have asked it. He smiles, looking at her, and says he liked her singing as he liked everything she did.
He leaves the Rostóvs' late in the evening. He goes to bed from habit, but soon realises that he cannot sleep. Having lit his candle he does not think that he is in love with Natásha; he is not thinking about her, but only picturing her to himself, and in consequence all life appears in a new light. Why do I strive, why do I toil in this narrow, confined frame, when life, all life with all its joys, is open to me? For the first time for a very long while he begins making happy plans for the future. He decides that he must attend to his son's education by finding a tutor and putting the boy in his charge, then he ought to retire from the service and go abroad, and see England, Switzerland, and Italy. I must use my freedom while I feel so much strength and youth in me. Pierre was right when he said one must believe in the possibility of happiness in order to be happy, and now I do believe in it. Let the dead bury their dead, but while one has life one must live and be happy.
