战争与和平(上)-第83章

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rolling　his　eyes；　as　he　sang　in　his　small；　husky；　but　true　voice　a　poem　of　his　own　composition；　“The　Enchantress；”　to　which　he　was　trying　to　fit　music。
“Enchantress；　say　what　hidden　fire
Draws　me　to　my　forsaken　lyre？
What　rapture　thrills　my　fingers　slow；
What　passion　sets　my　heart　aglow？”
he　sang　in　his　passionate　voice；　his　black；　agate　eyes　gleaming　at　the　frightened　and　delighted　Natasha。
“Splendid；　capital！”　Natasha　cried。　“Another　couplet；”　she　said；　not　noticing　Nikolay。
“Everything’s　just　the　same　with　them；”　thought　Nikolay；　peeping　into　the　drawing…room；　where　he　saw　Vera　and　his　mother　and　the　old　lady　playing　patience　with　her。
“Ah；　and　here’s　Nikolenka。”　Natasha　ran　up　to　him。　“Is　papa　at　home？”　he　asked。
“How　glad　I　am　that　you　have　come；”　said　Natasha；　not　answering　his　question；　“we　are　having　such　fun。　Vassily　Dmitritch　is　staying　a　day　longer　for　me；　do　you　know？”
“No；　papa　has　not　come　in　yet；”　answered　Sonya。
“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　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。
“Mamma！　…　Mamma！…　he　has　made　me　…”
“Made　you　what？”
“He’s　made；　made　an　offer。　Mamma！　Mamma！”　she　kept　crying。
The　countess　could　not　believe　her　ears。　Denisov　had　made　an　offer　…　to　whom？　…　To　this　chit　of　a　girl　Natasha；　who　had　only　just　given　up　playing　with　dolls；　and　was　still　having　lessons。
“Natasha；　enough　of　this　silliness！”　she　said；　hoping　it　was　a　joke。
“Silliness　indeed！　I　am　telling　you　the　fact；”　said　Natasha　angrily。　“I　have　come　to　ask　you　what　to　do；　and　you　talk　to　me　of　‘silliness’　…”
The　countess　shrugged　her　shoulders。
“If　it　is　true　that　Monsieur　Denisov　has　made　you　an　offer；　then　tell　him　he　is　a　fool；　that’s　all。”
“No；　he’s　not　a　fool；”　said　Natasha；　resentfully　and　seriously。
“Well；　what　would　you　have；　then？　You　are　all　in　love；　it　seems；　nowadays。　Oh；　well；　if　you’re　in　love　with　him；　better　marry　him；”　said　the　countess；　laughing　angrily；　“and　God　bless　you。”
“No；　mamma；　I’m　not　in　love　with　him。　I　suppose　I’m　not　in　love　with　him。”
“Well；　then；　tell　him　so。”
“Mamma；　are　you　cross？　Don’t　be　cross；　darling；　it’s　not　my　fault；　is　it？”
“No；　but　upon　my　word；　my　dear；　if　you　like；　I　will　go　and　tell　him　so；”　said　the　countess；　smiling。
“No；　I’ll　do　it　myself；　only　tell　me　how　to　say　it。　Everything　comes　easy　to　you；”　she　added；　responding　to　her　smile。　“And　if　you　could　have　seen　how　he　said　it　to　me！　I　know　he　did　not　mean　to　say　it；　but　said　it　by　accident。”
“Well；　any　way　you　must　refuse　him。”
“No；　I　mustn’t。　I　feel　so　sorry　for　him！　He’s　so　nice。”
“Oh；　well；　accept　his　proposal；　then。　High　time　you　were　married；　I　suppose；”　said　her　mother　angrily　and　ironically。
“No；　mamma；　but　I’m　so　sorry　for　him。　I　don’t　know　how　to　say　it。”
“Well；　there’s　no　need　for　you　to　say　anything。　I’ll　speak　to　him　myself；”　said　the　countess；　indignant　that　any　one　should　have　dared　to　treat　this　little　Natasha　as　grown　up。
“No；　not　on　any　account；　I’ll　go　myself；　and　you　listen　at　the　door；”—　and　Natasha　ran　across　the　drawing…room　to　the　hall；　where　Denisov；　his　face　in　his　hands；　was　still　sitting　in　the　same　chair　at　the　clavichord。　He　jumped　up　at　the　sound　of　her　light　footsteps。
“Natalie；”　h