Pierre, answering Natásha’s words, told her how intolerable it had been for him to meet ladies at dinners and balls in Petersburg.
“I have quite lost the knack of talking to ladies,” he said. “It was simply dull. Besides, I was very busy.”
Natásha looked intently at him and went on:
“Márya is so splendid,” she said. “How she understands children! It is as if she saw straight into their souls. Yesterday, for instance, Mítenka was naughty …”
“How like his father he is,” Pierre interjected.
Natásha knew why he mentioned Mítenka’s likeness to Nikoláy: the recollection of his dispute with his brother-in-law was unpleasant and he wanted to know what Natásha thought of it.
“Nikólenka has the weakness of never agreeing with anything not generally accepted. But I understand that you value what opens up a fresh line,” said she, repeating words Pierre had once uttered.
“No, the chief point is that to Nikoláy ideas and discussions are an amusement—almost a pastime,” said Pierre. “For instance, he is collecting a library and has made it a rule not to buy a new book till he has read what he had already bought—Sismondi and Rousseau and Montesquieu,” he added with a smile. “You know how much I …” he began to soften down what he had said; but Natásha interrupted him to show that this was unnecessary.