Two months previously, while staying with the Rostovs, Pierre received a letter from Prince Theodore asking him to Petersburg to confer on questions discussed by a society of which he is a principal founder. Natasha, who always reads her husband's letters, herself suggested he should go, though she would feel his absence acutely. She attributes immense importance to all his intellectual interests though she does not understand them, and dreads being a hindrance. To his timid look of inquiry she replies that he should go, but fix a definite date. He is given four weeks. Ever since that leave expired, more than a fortnight ago, she has been in a constant state of alarm, depression, and irritability. Denisov, now a retired general much dissatisfied with affairs, looks at her with sorrow and surprise as at a bad likeness of a person once dear. A dull, dejected look, random replies, and talk about the nursery are all he sees of his former enchantress. She is especially irritable when mother, brother, Sonya, or Countess Mary try to excuse Pierre. It is all nonsense, those discussions which lead to nothing and those idiotic societies, she declares of the very affairs in whose importance she firmly believes. Then she goes to the nursery to nurse Petya, her only boy. No one else can tell her anything so comforting as this three-month-old creature at her breast. You are angry, you are jealous, you would like to pay him out, you are afraid, but here am I. And I am he.
Natasha runs with light footsteps to the anteroom. Denisov, coming out of the study with his pipe, for the first time recognizes the old Natasha. A flood of brilliant light pours from her transfigured face. He has come. On reaching the vestibule she sees a tall figure in a fur coat unwinding a scarf. It is he, really he. She rushes, embraces him, presses his head to her breast, then pushes him back and gazes at his ruddy, happy face covered with hoarfrost. Then all at once she remembers the tortures of the last fortnight. The joy vanishes. She frowns and overwhelms him with reproaches. It is all very well for you. You have had a good time. What about me? You might have shown consideration for the children. I am nursing and my milk was spoiled. Petya was at death's door. Pierre knows he is not to blame, that he could not have come sooner, that the outburst will blow over in a minute. He wants to smile and dares not. He makes a piteous, frightened face. I could not, on my honour. How is Petya? All right now. Come along. If only you could see what I was like without you.
Soon the storm is over. Bright sunshine is on Natasha's face as she gazes tenderly at husband and child. Have you talked everything well over with Prince Theodore? Yes, capitally. You see, he holds it up, she says of the baby's head. Nicholas and Countess Mary come in. Pierre, with the baby on his hand, stoops, kisses them, and replies to inquiries, but the baby with the little cap on its unsteady head absorbs all his attention. How sweet, Mary says. I cannot understand how you do not see the charm of these delicious marvels. Nicholas looks coldly: a lump of flesh. Come along, Pierre. And yet he is such an affectionate father, Mary says, but only after they are a year old. Pierre nurses them splendidly, Natasha says. He says his hand is just made for a baby's seat. Only not for this, Pierre exclaims with a laugh, and gives the child to the nurse.
