"Oh dear, what a young lady!" said Foka, pretending to frown at Natasha.

No one in the house sent people about or gave them as much trouble as
Natasha did. She could not see people unconcernedly, but had to send
them on some errand. She seemed to be trying whether any of them would
get angry or sulky with her; but the serfs fulfilled no one's orders so
readily as they did hers. "What can I do, where can I go?" thought she,
as she went slowly along the passage.

"Nastasya Ivanovna, what sort of children shall I have?" she asked the
buffoon, who was coming toward her in a woman's jacket.

"Why, fleas, crickets, grasshoppers," answered the buffoon.

"O Lord, O Lord, it's always the same! Oh, where am I to go? What am I
to do with myself?" And tapping with her heels, she ran quickly upstairs
to see Vogel and his wife who lived on the upper story.

Two governesses were sitting with the Vogels at a table, on which were
plates of raisins, walnuts, and almonds. The governesses were discussing
whether it was cheaper to live in Moscow or Odessa. Natasha sat down,
listened to their talk with a serious and thoughtful air, and then got
up again.

"The island of Madagascar," she said, "Ma-da-gas-car," she repeated,
articulating each syllable distinctly, and, not replying to Madame
Schoss who asked her what she was saying, she went out of the room.

Her brother Petya was upstairs too; with the man in attendance on him he
was preparing fireworks to let off that night.

"Petya! Petya!" she called to him. "Carry me downstairs."

Petya ran up and offered her his back. She jumped on it, putting her
arms round his neck, and he pranced along with her.

"No, don't... the island of Madagascar!" she said, and jumping off his
back she went downstairs.

Having as it were reviewed her kingdom, tested her power, and made sure
that everyone was submissive, but that all the same it was dull, Natasha
betook herself to the ballroom, picked up her guitar, sat down in a dark
corner behind a bookcase, and began to run her fingers over the strings
in the bass, picking out a passage she recalled from an opera she had
heard in Petersburg with Prince Andrew. What she drew from the guitar
would have had no meaning for other listeners, but in her imagination
a whole series of reminiscences arose from those sounds. She sat behind
the bookcase with her eyes fixed on a streak of light escaping from the
pantry door and listened to herself and ponder