Dolokhov cut him short as if to remind Rostov that this was no laughing matter.
‘When shall I have the money, Count?’
Rostov blushed as he drew Dolokhov aside into the next room.
‘I can’t pay it all just like that. Will you take an IOU?’
‘Listen, Rostov,’ said Dolokhov with a sunny smile, looking Nikolay straight in the eye, ‘you know what they say, “Lucky in love, unlucky at cards.” Your cousin’s in love with you. I know that.’
‘Oh! How horrible to be like this – in this man’s power,’ thought Rostov. He knew what a shock the news of this loss would be to his father and mother – oh, if only he could be rid of it all! – and he sensed that Dolokhov now wanted to play cat and mouse with him, in the full knowledge that only he could free him from all the shame and grief.
‘Your cousin . . .’ Dolokhov started to say, but Nikolay cut him short.
‘My cousin has nothing to do with this! Keep her out of it!’ he cried with fury.
‘When do I get it, then?’ asked Dolokhov.
‘Tomorrow,’ said Rostov, and left the room.
CHAPTER 15
To utter the word ‘tomorrow’ with a semblance of politeness was not too difficult, but to arrive home alone, to see sisters and brother, mother and father, to confess and ask for money which he had no right to after giving his word of honour, was ghastly.
They were still up. The younger members of the family had come back from the theatre to a good supper, and were now gathered round the clavichord. The moment Nikolay set foot in the hall he felt himself absorbed into the poetic atmosphere of love which had ruled their household that winter and seemed to have intensified around Sonya and Natasha ever since Dolokhov’s proposal and Iogel’s ball, like pressure building up before a storm. Sonya and Natasha, still wearing the light-blue dresses they had worn for the theatre, stood by the clavichord, pretty girls and conscious of it, happy and smiling. Vera was playing chess with Shinshin in the drawing-room. The old countess, waiting for her son and her husband to come home, was playing patience with an elderly gentlewoman who lived in with them. Denisov, with his gleaming eyes and unkempt hair, was sitting at the clavichord with one leg pushed back behind him, playing chords with his stubby little fingers and rolling his eyes as he applied his thin, reedy but tuneful voice to a poem of his own composition, ‘The Sorceress’, which he was trying to set to music.
O sorcewess, what is this power that lingers,
Weturning me to my forsaken lyre?
What wapture this that floods into my fingers?
Why did you fill my waging heart with fire?
He was singing with great passion, his black, agate eyes gleaming at the frightened but delighted Natasha.
‘Oh, that’s splendid! Perfect!’ Natasha cried. ‘Another verse please,’ she said, not noticing Nikolay.
‘Nothing’s changed here,’ thought Nikolay, glancing into the drawing-room, where he could see Vera and his mother and the old lady sitting with her.
‘Oh, here he is! Nikolay!’ Natasha ran over to him.
‘Is Papa back yet?’ he asked.
‘Oh, I’m so pleased you’ve come,’ said Natasha, ignoring his question. ‘We’re having such a marvellous time. Vasily Dmitrich is staying on another day just for me. Did you know?’
‘No, Papa is still out,’ answered Sonya.
‘Darling Nikolay, is that you? Come here, my dear,’ came the old countess’s voice from the drawing-room. Nikolay went in to see his mother, kissed her hand, sat down by her table and started to watch her hands in silence as they placed the cards. From the hall came the sounds of laughter and happy voices urging Natasha to sing.
‘All wight! All wight!’ Denisov cried. ‘No excuses now, it’s your turn to sing the barcawolle – at my wequest!’
The countess glanced at her silent son.
‘Is something wrong?’ she asked him.
‘No, no,’ he said, as if he’d heard this question many times before and was getting fed up with it. ‘Will Papa be long?’
‘No, I shouldn’t think so.’
‘Nothing’s changed here. They don’t know a thing about it. What can I do with myself?’ thought Nikolay, and he went back into the hall where they were playing the clavichord.
Sonya was at the keyboard, playing the prelude to Denisov’s favourite barcarolle. Natasha was getting ready to sing. Denisov was watching her, enraptured. Nikolay began pacing up and down the room.
‘Why do they want to get her singing? What can she sing? There’s nothing to be happy about,’ thought Nikolay.
Sonya played the opening chord of the prelude.
‘My God, I’m ruined. My honour’s gone. Bullet through the head, that’s my only way out, not singing,’ he thought. ‘Shall I run away? Where to? Oh, it makes no difference – let them get on with the singing.’ Still pacing, Nikolay glanced darkly at Denisov and the girls, avoiding their eyes.
‘Nikolay, what’s wrong?’ asked Sonya’s staring eyes. She had known immediately that something must have happened to him.
