Enchantress, say, to my forsaken lyre What magic power is this recalls me still? What spark has set my inmost soul on fire, What is this bliss that makes my fingers thrill?
He was singing in passionate tones, gazing with his sparkling black-agate eyes at the frightened and happy Natásha.
“Splendid! Excellent!” exclaimed Natásha. “Another verse,” she said, without noticing Nikoláy.
“Everything’s still the same with them,” thought Nikoláy, glancing into the drawing room, where he saw Véra and his mother with the old lady.
“Ah, and here’s Nikólenka!” cried Natásha, running up to him.
“Is Papa at home?” he asked.
“I am so glad you’ve come!” said Natásha, without answering him. “We are enjoying ourselves! Vasíli Dmítrich is staying a day longer for my sake! Did you know?”
“No, Papa is not back yet,” said Sónya.
“Nikoláy, have you come? Come here, dear!” called the old countess from the drawing room.
Nikoláy went to her, kissed her hand, and sitting down silently at her table began to watch her hands arranging the cards. From the dancing room, they still heard the laughter and merry voices trying to persuade Natásha to sing.