“No, not on any account! I will tell him myself, and you’ll listen at the door,” and Natásha ran across the drawing room to the dancing hall, where Denísov was sitting on the same chair by the clavichord with his face in his hands.
He jumped up at the sound of her light step.
“Natáli,” he said, moving with rapid steps toward her, “decide my fate. It is in your hands.”
“Vasíli Dmítrich, I’m so sorry for you! … No, but you are so nice … but it won’t do … not that … but as a friend, I shall always love you.”
Denísov bent over her hand and she heard strange sounds she did not understand. She kissed his rough curly black head. At this instant, they heard the quick rustle of the countess’ dress. She came up to them.
“Vasíli Dmítrich, I thank you for the honor,” she said, with an embarrassed voice, though it sounded severe to Denísov—“but my daughter is so young, and I thought that, as my son’s friend, you would have addressed yourself first to me. In that case you would not have obliged me to give this refusal.”
“Countess …” said Denísov, with downcast eyes and a guilty face. He tried to say more, but faltered.
Natásha could not remain calm, seeing him in such a plight. She began to sob aloud.
“Countess, I have done w’ong,” Denísov went on in an unsteady voice, “but believe me, I so adore your daughter and all your family that I would give my life twice over …” He looked at the countess, and seeing her severe face said: “Well, goodbye, Countess,” and kissing her hand, he left the room with quick resolute strides, without looking at Natásha.