stronger, as though this feeling of his was subject to the law by which the force of attraction is in inverse proportion to the square of the distance. At the last post station before Otrádnoe he gave the driver a three-ruble tip, and on arriving he ran breathlessly, like a boy, up the steps of his home.
After the rapture of meeting, and after that odd feeling of unsatisfied expectation—the feeling that “everything is just the same, so why did I hurry?”—Nikoláy began to settle down in his old home world. His father and mother were much the same, only a little older. What was new in them was a certain uneasiness and occasional discord, which there used not to be, and which, as Nikoláy soon found out, was due to the bad state of their affairs. Sónya was nearly twenty; she had stopped growing prettier and promised nothing more than she was already, but that was enough. She exhaled happiness and love from the time Nikoláy returned, and the faithful, unalterable love of this girl had a gladdening effect on him. Pétya and Natásha surprised Nikoláy most. Pétya was a big handsome boy of thirteen, merry, witty, and mischievous, with a voice that was already breaking. As for Natásha, for a long while Nikoláy wondered and laughed whenever he looked at her.
“You’re not the same at all,” he said.
“How? Am I uglier?”
“On the contrary, but what dignity? A princess!” he whispered to her.
“Yes, yes, yes!” cried Natásha, joyfully.
She told him about her romance with Prince Andréy and of his visit to Otrádnoe and showed him his last letter.
“Well, are you glad?” Natásha asked. “I am so tranquil and happy now.”
“Very glad,” answered Nikoláy. “He is an excellent fellow. … And are you very much in love?”