It is long since Rostóv has felt such enjoyment from music. But no sooner has Natásha finished her barcarolle than reality presents itself again. He gets up without a word and goes downstairs to his own room. A quarter of an hour later the old count comes in from his club, cheerful and contented. Nicholas, hearing him drive up, goes to meet him. "Well, had a good time?" The count smiles gaily and proudly at his son. Nicholas tries to say yes and cannot; he nearly bursts into sobs. The count is lighting his pipe and does not notice. It cannot be avoided, Nicholas thinks, for the first and last time. Suddenly, in the most casual tone, which makes him ashamed of himself, as if merely asking for the carriage to drive to town, he says he has come on a matter of business, he was nearly forgetting, he needs some money. Dear me, the father is in a specially good humour: he told him it would not be enough. How much? Very much, Nicholas says, flushing, with a stupid careless smile for which he is long unable to forgive himself: he has lost a little, he means a good deal, a great deal, forty-three thousand. "What! To whom? Nonsense!" The count reddens with an apoplectic flush over neck and nape as old people do. Nicholas promised to pay tomorrow. The old count spreads out his arms and sinks helplessly on the sofa. "It can't be helped! It happens to everyone!" the son says, bold and easy, while in his soul he regards himself as a worthless scoundrel whose whole life could not atone. He longs to kiss his father's hands and kneel, but the voice stays careless, even rude. The count casts down his eyes and begins bustlingly searching for something. Yes, yes, it will be difficult to raise... happens to everybody... who has not done it? With a furtive glance at his son's face he goes out. Nicholas had been prepared for resistance, not for this. "Papa! Pa-pa!" he calls after him, sobbing. "Forgive me!" He seizes the hand, presses it to his lips, and bursts into tears.
While father and son are having their explanation, mother and daughter are having one not less important. Natásha runs in, quite excited: he has made her an offer. The countess does not believe her ears. Denísov has proposed, to this chit who not so long ago played with dolls and is still having lessons. Don't, what nonsense, hoping it is a joke. Natásha is indignant: she came to ask what to do. If it is true, tell him he is a fool. He is not a fool. Well then, if she is in love, marry him, the countess laughs with annoyance. Natásha supposes she is not in love with him. Then tell him so. Is Mamma cross? It is not her fault. Do you want me to go and tell him? No, she will do it herself, only tell her what to say. He did not mean to say it; it came out accidentally. She must refuse. She is so sorry for him, he is so nice, she does not know how to say it. There is nothing for her to say; the countess will speak herself, indignant that they should have dared to treat this little Natásha as grown up. No, not on any account: Natásha will tell him, and Mamma shall listen at the door. She runs to the dancing hall, where Denísov sits on the same chair by the clavichord with his face in his hands. He jumps up. "Nataly, decide my fate. It is in your hands." "Vasíli Dmítrich, I'm so sorry... you are so nice... but it won't do... as a friend I shall always love you." He bends over her hand; she hears strange sounds she does not understand, and kisses his rough curly black head. The countess's dress rustles. She thanks him for the honour, embarrassed though she sounds severe to him: her daughter is so young, and she thought that, as her son's friend, he would have addressed himself first to her, in which case he would not have obliged her to give this refusal. "Countess..." He tries to say more and falters. Natásha sobs aloud. He has done wrong, but he so adores her daughter and all the family that he would give his life twice over. Seeing the severe face he says, "Well, good-by, Countess," kisses her hand, and leaves with quick resolute strides, without looking at Natásha.
Next day Rostóv sees him off. Denísov does not wish to stay another day in Moscow. All his Moscow friends give him a farewell entertainment at the gypsies', with the result that he has no recollection of how he was put in the sleigh or of the first three stages. After his departure Nicholas spends another fortnight in the house, waiting for money his father cannot at once raise, most of the time in the girls' room. Sónya is more tender and devoted than ever, as if she wanted to show that his losses were an achievement that made her love him all the more, but he now considers himself unworthy of her. He fills the girls' albums with verses and music, and having at last sent Dólokhov the whole forty-three thousand and received his receipt, he leaves at the end of November, without taking leave of any of his acquaintances, to overtake his regiment, already in Poland.
