Nikolay turned away. Natasha, too, with her usual acuteness, had instantly sensed her brother’s state of mind. She did notice him, but she was in such high spirits at that moment, so remote from sorrow, gloom and censure, that she deliberately indulged in a little self-delusion, as young people often do. ‘No, I’m too happy at this moment to spoil my happiness by sympathizing with someone else’s sorrow,’ was what she felt, though she said to herself, ‘No, I’ve probably got it all wrong. He must be as happy as I am.’
‘Come on, Sonya,’ she said, walking out into the middle of the room, where she thought the acoustics were best. Tilting her head, and letting her arms dangle lifelessly like a ballet-dancer, Natasha performed a strong heel-and-toe figure in the middle of the room and then stood still.
‘Here I am! Look at me!’ she seemed to be saying in response to Denisov’s enraptured gaze, which never left her.
‘What is she so pleased about?’ Nikolay wondered, looking at his sister. ‘Why doesn’t she get fed up with all this? Has she no shame?’ As Natasha sang the first note her throat swelled, her chest rose and her eyes became serious. Oblivious for the moment of everyone and everything, she spread her mouth into a broad smile and out came the sounds of her voice, sounds that might have left you cold if you had heard them a thousand times identically pitched and held, but then suddenly, the thousand and first time, you would be reduced to tears and trembling.
That winter Natasha had begun to take her singing seriously for the first time, especially since Denisov had been so complimentary about her voice. She no longer sang like a child. She had got rid of the childish straining for effect that had made her singing rather amusing until recently. But she was not yet a good singer, according to the musical experts who heard her. ‘No polish. A nice voice, but it needs polishing,’ they all said. But this was usually said a long time after her voice had stopped. While that unpolished voice was actually singing, for all its wrong breathing and moments of strain, even the experts kept quiet, enjoying the voice, however unpolished, and longing to hear more of it. It had a virginal purity, intuitive power and an easy velvety smoothness, so closely bound up with its own artistic imperfections that it seemed untouchable – as if nothing could be done to that voice without spoiling it.
‘How can she?’ thought Nikolay with staring eyes when he heard her sing. ‘What’s got into her? How can she sing at a time like this?’ he thought. But then suddenly his whole world was concentrated on waiting for the next note, the next cadence, and everything in the world had a three-beat rhythm:
‘Oh, the stupidity of human life!’ thought Nikolay. ‘All these things – this disaster, money, Dolokhov, evil, honour – it’s all rubbish . . .
Oh, the beauty of their singing in thirds, Oh, the lovely tremolo! Rostov felt a thrill of something nobler in his soul. And that something was detached from everything in the world, and higher than anything in the world. Gambling debts? Dolokhovs? Honour? What were they compared with this? Rubbish! You can murder and steal and still be happy . . .
CHAPTER 16
It was a long time since Rostov had felt such enjoyment in music as he did that day. But as soon as Natasha had finished her barcarolle he was brought back down to reality. He walked out without saying anything and went down to his room. A quarter of an hour later, the old count came in from his club, jolly and contented. Nikolay, hearing him drive up, went to see him.
‘Had a good time, then?’ asked the old count, a proud and delighted man, smiling cheerfully at his son. Nikolay tried to say yes, but he couldn’t; he was choking with sobs. The count was busy lighting his pipe and did not notice the state his son was in.
‘Oh well, it’s got to be done!’ thought Nikolay, once and for all. And out it came: feeling ashamed for doing so, he said to his father quite off-handedly, as if he was asking to use the carriage for a trip down town, ‘Oh, Papa, there’s a bit of business we ought to discuss. I nearly forgot. I need some money.’
‘Dear me,’ said his father, who happened to be in a very good mood. ‘I said you wouldn’t have enough. How much?’
‘A lot,’ said Nikolay, blushing and smiling a crass, casual smile for which he would never be able to forgive himself. ‘I’ve lost a bit at cards, well rather a lot really, an awful lot – forty-three thousand.’
