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“Kolya； you there？ Come to me； darling；” said the voice of the countess from the drawing…room。 Nikolay went up to his mother； kissed her hand； and sitting down by her table； began silently watching her hands as they dealt the cards。 From the hall he kept hearing the sound of laughter and merry voices； persuading Natasha to do something。
“Oh； very well； very well！” Denisov cried； “now it’s no use crying off； it’s your turn to sing the barcarolle； I entreat you。”
The countess looked round at her silent son。
“What’s the matter？” his mother asked Nikolay。
“Oh； nothing；” he said； as though sick of being continually asked the same question： “Will papa soon be in？”
“I expect so。”
“Everything’s the same with them。 They know nothing about it。 What am I to do with myself？” thought Nikolay； and he went back to the hall； where the clavichord was。
Sonya was sitting at the clavichord； playing the prelude of the barcarolle that Denisov particularly liked。 Natasha was preparing to sing。 Denisov was watching her with impassioned eyes。
Nikolay began walking to and fro in the room。
“What can induce her to want to sing？ What can she sing？ And there’s nothing to be so happy about in it；” thought Nikolay。
Sonya struck the first chord of the prelude。 “My God； I’m ruined； I’m a dishonoured man。 Bullet through my head； that’s the only thing left for me； and not singing；” he thought。 “Go away？ But where？ It makes no difference； let them sing。”
Still walking about the room； Nikolay glanced gloomily at Denisov and the girls； avoiding their eyes。
“Nikolenka； what’s the matter？” Sonya’s eyes asked； looking intently at him。 She saw at once that something had happened to him。
Nikolay turned away from her。 Natasha； too； with her quick instinct instantly detected her brother’s state of mind。 She noticed him； but she was herself in such high spirits at that moment； she was so far from sorrow； from sadness； from reproaches； that purposely she deceived herself （as young people so often do）。 “No； I’m too happy just now to spoil my enjoyment by sympathy with any one’s sorrow；” she felt； and she said to herself： “No； I’m most likely mistaken； he must be happy； just as I am。”
“Come； Sonya；” she said。 walking into the very middle of the room； where to her mind the resonance was best of all。 Holding her head up； letting her arms hang lifelessly as dancers do； Natasha； with a vigorous turn from her heel on to her toe； walked over to the middle of the room and stood still。
“Behold me； here I am！” she seemed to say； in response to the enthusiastic gaze with which Denisov followed her。 “And what can she find to be so pleased at！” Nikolay wondered； looking at his sister。 “How is it she isn’t feeling dull and ashamed！” Natasha took the first note； her throat swelled； her bosom heaved； a serious expression came into her face。 She was thinking of no one and of nothing at that moment； and from her smiling mouth poured forth notes； those notes that any one can produce at the same intervals； and hold for the same length of time； yet a thousand times they leave us cold； and the thousand and first time they set us thrilling and weeping。
Natasha had for the first time begun that winter to take singing seriously； especially since Denisov had been so enthusiastic over her singing。 She did not now sing like a child； there was not now in her singing that comical childish effort which used to be perceptible in it。 But she did not yet sing well； said the musical connoisseurs who heard her。 “Not trained： a fine voice； it must be trained；” every one said。 But this was usually said a good while after her voice was hushed。 While that untrained voice； with its irregular breathing and its strained transitions sounded； even connoisseurs said nothing； and simply enjoyed that untrained voice； and simply longed to hear it again。 Her voice had a virginal purity； an ignorance of its capacities； and an unlaboured velvety softness； so closely connected with its lack of art in singing； that it seemed as though nothing could be changed in that voice without spoiling it。
“How is it？” thought Nikolay； hearing her voice and opening his eyes wide； “what has happened to her？ How she is singing to…day！” he thought。 And all at once the whole world was for him concentrated into anticipations of the next note； the next bar； and everything in the world seemed divided up into three motives： “Oh； mio crudele affetto … One； two； three…one…Oh； mio crudele affetto … One； two； three … one。 Ugh； this senseless life of ours！” thought Nikolay。 “All that； this calamity； and money； and Dolohov； and anger； and honour—it’s all nonsense … and this is what’s the real thing…Now； Natasha！ now； darling！ now； my girl！ … how will she take that si？ taken it！ thank God！” and without being conscious that he was singing； he himself sung a second to support her high note。 “My God！ how fine！ Can I have taken that note？ how glorious！” he thought。
Oh； how that note had thrilled； and how something better that was in Rostov’s soul began thrilling too。 And that something was apart from everything in the world； and above everything in the world。 What were losses； and Dolohovs； and honour beside it！ … All nonsense！ One might murder； and steal； and yet be happy。…
Chapter 16
IT was long since Rostov had derived such enjoyment from music as on that day。 But as soon as Natasha had finished her barcarolle； the reality forced itself upon his mind again。 Saying nothing； he went out； and went down stairs to his own room。 A quarter of an hour later； the old prince came in； good…humoured and satisfied from his club。 Nikolay heard him come in； and went in to him。
“Well； had a good time？” said Ilya Andreivitch； smiling proudly and joyfully to his son。 Nikolay tried to say “Yes；” but could not； he was on the point of sobbing。 The count was lighting his pipe； and did not notice his son’s condition。
“Ugh； it’s inevitable！” thought Nikolay； for the first and last time。 And all at once； as though he were asking for the carriage to drive into town； he said to his father in the most casual tone； that made him feel vile to himself：
“Papa； I have come to you on a matter of business I was almost forgetting。 I want some money。”
“You don’t say so？” said his father； who happened to be in particularly good spirits。 “I told you that we shouldn’t be having any。 Do you want a large sum？”
“Very large；” said Nikolay； flushing and smiling a stupid； careless smile； for which long after he could not forgive himself。 “I have lost a little at cards； that is； a good deal； really； a great deal； forty…three thousand。”
“What！ To whom？ … You’re joking！” cried the count； flushing； as old people flush； an apoplectic red over his neck and the back of his head。
“I have promised to pay it to…morrow；” said Nikolay。
“Oh！” … said the count； flinging up his arms； and he dropped helplessly on the sofa。
“It can’t be helped！ It happens to every one；” said his son in a free and easy tone； while in his heart he was feeling himself a low scoundrel； whose whole life could not atone for his crime。 He would have liked to kiss his father’s hands； to beg his forgiveness