this is real. … Now then, Natásha, now then, dearest! Now then, darling! How will she take that si ? She’s taken it! Thank God!” And without noticing that he was singing, to strengthen the si he sung a second, a third below the high note. “Ah, God! How fine! Did I really take it? How fortunate!” he thought.
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. …”
XVI
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.
“Ah, it can’t be avoided!” thought Nikoláy, for the first and last time. And suddenly, in the most casual tone, which made him feel ashamed of himself, he said, as if merely asking his father to let him have the carriage to drive to town:
“Papa, I have come on a matter