Oh, how that chord vibrated, and how moved was something that was finest in Rostóv’s soul! And this something was apart from everything else in the world and above everything in the world. “What were losses, and Dólokhov, and words of honor?⁠ ⁠… All nonsense! One might kill and rob and yet be happy.⁠ ⁠…”

It was long since Rostóv had felt such enjoyment from music as he did that day. But no sooner had Natásha finished her barcarolle than reality again presented itself. He got up without saying a word and went downstairs to his own room. A quarter of an hour later the old count came in from his club, cheerful and contented. Nikoláy, hearing him drive up, went to meet him.

“Well⁠—had a good time?” said the old count, smiling gaily and proudly at his son.

Nikoláy tried to say “Yes,” but could not: and he nearly burst into sobs. The count was lighting his pipe and did not notice his son’s condition.