So they went through their memories, smiling with pleasure: not the sad memories of old age, but poetic, youthful ones⁠—those impressions of one’s most distant past in which dreams and realities blend⁠—and they laughed with quiet enjoyment.

Sónya, as always, did not quite keep pace with them, though they shared the same reminiscences.

Much that they remembered had slipped from her mind, and what she recalled did not arouse the same poetic feeling as they experienced. She simply enjoyed their pleasure and tried to fit in with it.

She only really took part when they recalled Sónya’s first arrival. She told them how afraid she had been of Nikoláy because he had on a corded jacket and her nurse had told her that she, too, would be sewn up with cords.

“And I remember their telling me that you had been born under a cabbage,” said Natásha, “and I remember that I dared not disbelieve it then, but knew that it was not true, and I felt so uncomfortable.”