sand 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. . . .
XVI
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 on his knees, while carelessly, rudely even, he was telling him that it happened to every one.
Count Ilya Andreivitch dropped his eyes when he heard those words from his son, and began moving hurriedly, as though looking for something.
‘Yes, yes,’ he brought out, ‘it will be difficult, I fear, difficult to raise . . . happens to every one! yes, it happens to every one . . .’ And the count cast a fleeting glance at his son’s face and walked out of the room. . . . Nikolay had been prepared to face resistance, but he had not expected this.
‘Papa! pa ... pa!’ he cried after him, sobbing; ‘forgive me!’ And clutching at his father’s hand, he pressed it to his lips and burst into tears.
While the father and son were having this interview, another, hardly less important, was taking place between the mother and daughter. Natasha, in great excitement, had run in to her mother.
