To say "tomorrow" and keep up a dignified tone is not difficult. To go home alone, see his sisters, brother, mother, and father, confess and ask for money he has no right to after giving his word of honour, is terrible. At home they have not yet gone to bed. The young people, back from the theatre, have had supper and are grouped round the clavichord. As soon as Nicholas enters he is enfolded in that poetic atmosphere of love which has pervaded the Rostóv household that winter and, after Dólokhov's proposal and Iogel's ball, seems to have grown thicker round Sónya and Natásha as air does before a thunderstorm. They stand by the clavichord in the light-blue dresses they wore at the theatre, pretty and conscious of it, happy and smiling. Véra is playing chess with Shinshín. The old countess, waiting for husband and son, plays patience with the old gentlewoman who lives in the house. Denísov, sparkling eyes, ruffled hair, sits at the clavichord striking chords with his short fingers, legs thrown back, singing in a small husky true voice verses called "Enchantress" that he has composed, trying to fit music, gazing with black-agate eyes at frightened, happy Natásha. Splendid, another verse, she says, without noticing Nicholas. Everything is still the same with them. Then she runs up: she is so glad; they are enjoying themselves; Vasíli Dmítrich is staying a day longer for her sake. Papa is not back, Sónya says. The countess calls him. He kisses her hand and sits silently watching her arrange the cards. From the dancing room, laughter still tries to persuade Natásha to sing. "All wight! It's your turn to sing the ba'cawolla!" The countess glances at her silent son. What is the matter? Oh, nothing. Will Papa be back soon? I expect so. They know nothing about it. Where is he to go?
He returns to the dancing room. Sónya plays the prelude to Denísov's favourite barcarolle. Natásha prepares to sing. Denísov looks at her with enraptured eyes. Nicholas paces. Why do they want to make her sing? How can she sing? There is nothing to be happy about. My God, he is a ruined and dishonoured man. A bullet through his brain is the only thing left, not singing. Go away? But where? Let them sing. He looks gloomily at them, avoiding their eyes. Sónya's look asks what is the matter; she notices at once that something has happened. He turns away. Natásha, with her quick instinct, has also noticed, but she is in such high spirits, so far from sorrow, that she purposely deceives herself as young people often do: she is too happy now to spoil her enjoyment by sympathy. She must be mistaken; he must be feeling happy, just as she is. "Now, Sónya!" She goes to the middle of the room, where she considers the resonance best, lifts her head, lets her arms droop as ballet dancers do, rises from heels to toes, and stands still. "Yes, that's me!" she seems to say to Denísov's rapt gaze. Why is she so pleased? Nicholas thinks. Why isn't she dull and ashamed?
Natásha takes the first note, throat swelling, chest rising, eyes serious. She is oblivious of her surroundings. From her smiling lips flow sounds which anyone may produce at the same intervals and hold for the same time, but which leave you cold a thousand times and the thousand and first thrill you and make you weep. That winter she has begun to sing seriously, mainly because Denísov so delights in it. She no longer sings as a child; the comical painstaking effect is gone; she does not yet sing well, as the connoisseurs say afterwards: not trained, but a beautiful voice that must be trained. While it sounds they say nothing, only delight and wish to hear it again. There is a virginal freshness, an unconsciousness of her own powers, an untrained velvety softness so mingled with lack of art that it seems nothing could be altered without spoiling it. "What has happened to her? How she is singing today!" Suddenly the whole world is centred for him on the next note, the next phrase, everything divided into three beats: "Oh mio crudele affetto." One, two, three. This senseless life, misery, money, Dólokhov, anger, honour: all nonsense, but this is real. Now then, Natásha, dearest, how will she take that si? She has taken it. Thank God. Without noticing, he sings a second, a third below the high note. How fine. Did he really take it? How that chord vibrates, and how moved is something finest in his soul, apart from everything else and above it. What were losses, and Dólokhov, and words of honour? All nonsense. One might kill and rob and yet be happy.
