When this outburst of joyous tears was over, Márya Ivánovna understood what had happened and believed it, and began to examine them all. But several times during the course of the day, whenever she recalled what he had been then, and what she had been, and what they were now, and whenever the past misfortunes, and past joys and loves, vividly rose in her imagination, she was again seized by emotion, and got up and repeated: “What a stupid you are, Pierre, what a stupid not to have prepared me!”

“Why did you not come straight to me? I should have found room for you,” said Márya Ivánovna. “At least, stay to dinner. You will not feel lonesome, Sergyéy⁠—a young, brave Sevastopol soldier is dining here today. Do you not know Nikoláy Mikháylovich’s son? He is a writer⁠—has written something nice. I have not read it, but they praise it, and he is a dear fellow⁠—I shall send for him. Chikháev, too, wanted to come. He is a babbler⁠—I do not like him. Has he already called on you? Have you seen Nikíta? That is all nonsense. What do you intend to do? How are you, how is your health, Natálya? What are you going to do with this young fellow, and with this beauty?”