Book 4 Chapter 15

TO SAY “TO-MORROW,” and maintain the right tone was not difficult, but to arrive home alone, to see his sisters and brother, his mother and father, to confess and beg for money to which he had no right after giving his word of honour, was terrible.

At home they had not yet gone to bed. The younger members of the family after coming home from the theatre had had supper, and were now in a group about the clavichord. As soon as Nikolay entered the hall, he felt himself enfolded in the poetic atmosphere of love which dominated their household that winter; and now, since Dolohov's proposal and Iogel's ball, seemed to have grown thicker about Sonya and Natasha, like the air before a storm. Sonya and Natasha, wearing the light blue dresses they had put on for the theatre, stood at the clavichord, pretty and conscious of being so, happy and smiling. Vera was playing draughts with Shinshin in the drawing-room. The old countess, waiting for her son and her husband to come in, was playing patience with an old gentlewoman, who was one of their household. Denisov, with shining eyes and ruffled hair, was sitting with one leg behind him at the clavichord. He was striking chords with his short fingers, and 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.…

说一声“明天”并且保持得体的腔调，并不是一件困难的事，他独自一人走回家去，看见妹妹、弟弟、母亲和父亲，承认错误，并向家里的人要钱，这倒是一件可怕的事，因为他在许下诺言之后没有权利再要钱了。

家里的人都还没有睡觉。罗斯托夫家里的青年已经从剧院里回来，吃罢晚饭，便坐在击弦古钢琴旁边。尼古拉刚刚走进大厅，一种抚爱的、诗意的气氛笼罩住了，这年冬天他们家中经常洋溢着这种气氛，在多洛霍夫求婚和约格尔举办舞会之后，而今迷漫于索尼娅和娜塔莎的上方的气氛，看来就像雷雨前的空气一样变得更浓了。索尼娅和娜塔莎穿着那件他们上戏院时穿的天蓝色的连衣裙，显得非常迷人，而且她们也知道自己的俊俏，于是带着惹人喜爱的微笑伫立于击弦古钢琴旁边，薇拉和申申在客厅中下象棋。老伯爵夫人等候着儿子和丈夫，正和住在他们家里的贵族老太太一块摆纸牌猜卦。杰尼索夫的两眼闪闪发亮，头发蓬乱，他把一只脚向后伸出来，在击弦古钢琴旁边坐着，他那短短的指头拍击着琴弦，弹出和弦，眼珠儿骨碌地乱转，并用他那尖细、嘶哑、然而准确的声音吟唱着他所创作的诗歌《神奇的仙女》，正试图为其歌词配曲。

神奇的仙女，

请你告诉我：

是什么力量

吸引我拨弄

遗弃的琴弦？

你在我心中

播下了火种，

是什么灵感

洋溢于指头？

他很热情地唱歌，他那双玛瑙般乌黑的眼睛闪闪发光地望着惊惶失措的、深感幸福的娜塔莎。

“美极了！妙极了！”娜塔莎喊道，“再唱一段吧。”她说着，没有发觉尼古拉走进来了。

“他们那里还是那个样子。”尼古拉想了想，他朝客厅里张望，望见了薇拉、母亲和老妇人。

“啊，你瞧，尼古连卡来了！”娜塔莎跑到他跟前。

“爸爸在家吗？”他问道。

“你回来了，我多么高兴！”娜塔莎说道，没有回答他的话。“我们都很快活哩。瓦西里·德米特里奇为我多待了一天，你知道吗？”

“爸爸不在家，还没有回来过啦。”索尼娅说道。

“真想不到，聪明人，你回来了，你到我这里来，我的亲人。”从客厅里传来伯爵夫人的语声。尼古拉走到母亲面前，吻吻她的手，一声不响地坐在她的桌子旁边，看看她那双摆纸牌卜卦的手。从大厅里传来一片笑声和劝说娜塔莎的愉快的谈话声。

“得啦吧，好，好，”杰尼索夫喊道，“现在用不着托词推卸，该您唱Barcarolla①了，我央求您。”

①意大利威尼斯的船歌。

伯爵夫人掉过头来望望默不作声的儿子。

“你怎么啦？”母亲问尼古拉。

“哦，没有什么，”他说道，好像他厌烦这个提来提去的问题，“爸爸快回来了吧？”

“我想，快回来了。”

“他们还是那个样子。他们什么也不知道啊！我要到哪里去才好？”尼古拉想了想，又到那摆放击弦古钢琴的大厅里去了。

索尼娅坐在击弦古钢琴旁边，弹奏着杰尼索夫特别爱听的船夫曲的序曲。娜塔莎想要唱歌了。杰尼索夫用得意洋洋的目光望着她。

尼古拉开始在房里走来走去。

“何苦强迫她唱歌！她会唱什么歌？这是没有什么令人高兴的事儿。”尼古拉想道。

索尼娅弹奏了序曲的第一个和弦。

“我的天，我毁灭了，我是个无耻的人。只有一条路，对准自己的额角，开枪自杀，不要唱歌吧，”他想了想，“走开吗？可是到哪里去呢？横竖无所谓，让他们唱吧！”

尼古拉阴郁起来，继续在房里踱来踱去，不时地看看杰尼索夫和几个小姑娘，想避开他们的目光。

“尼古连卡，您怎么啦？”索尼娅目不转睛地注视他，她的目光仿佛在问他似的。她立刻看出，他出了什么事。

尼古拉把脸转过去，不看她。娜塔莎也非常敏感，她一下子觉察出哥哥神态。她尽管看出了，但是在这个时刻，她非常快活，根本没有想到什么悲哀、忧伤和内疚，她（这是年轻人常有的情形）存心哄骗自己，“不，我现在太快活了，不能因为同情别人的痛苦而伤害自己的快乐心情。”她有这种感觉，并且对自己说：“不，我也许是弄错了，他应当像我这样快活。”

“喂，索尼娅。”她说了一声，便走到大厅中央，在她看来，那里的回音最响。像舞蹈家一样，娜塔莎稍微抬起头，放下她那双呆板地悬着的手，她用力地把重心从后跟换到脚尖上，在房间中央走了一圈，就停下来。

“你瞧，我就是这个样子！”她在回答那跟随着她的杰尼索夫的得意洋洋的目光时，仿佛是这样说的。

“她因为什么而高兴啊！”尼古拉瞧着他的妹妹时，思忖了一会，“她怎么不感到寂寞，不感到羞耻！”娜塔莎唱出了第一个音，拉开了嗓门，挺起了胸脯，眼睛里露出严肃的表情。这个时分她既不想到任何人，也不想到任何事，一个一个的音从嘴中滔滔不绝地吐出来，嘴角上流露微笑，任何人在同样的时间距离和同样的音程中都能发出这些音来，声音千次地使您无动于衷，但到一千零一次时它却使您颤栗，使您涕泪横流。

这年冬天，娜塔莎破天荒地非常认真地唱起歌来，她所以这样做，特别是因为她的歌声能使杰尼索夫心旷神怡。现在她不像儿童那样唱歌了，在她的歌唱中已经没有从前那种滑稽可笑的、儿童般卖力的感觉，但是，那些听过她唱歌的内行的裁判员都说，她还唱得不太好。“虽然还没有训练，但是嗓子倒很好，应当训练一番。”人人都这么说。但是平常大家却是在她的歌声停止后过了很久才说出这番话的。在这个送气不正确、换气费力、没有训练好的歌喉正在唱歌的时候，就连这些内行的裁判员也不开腔说话，而只是欣赏这个没有训练好的歌喉，只是希望再听她唱一遍。在她的歌喉中含有少女的纯真、对歌声迷力的无自知之明以及尚未训练的歌喉的柔和悦耳，这一切与歌咏技巧的缺乏联系起来看，使人感到，如果你不去毁坏这个歌喉，那末，这一切丝毫也不能改变她的歌喉。

“这究竟是怎么回事？”尼古拉听见她的嗓音，瞪大眼睛，想了想。“她发生了什么事？她今天唱得怎么样？”他想了想。在他看来，全世界的人们忽然都在聚精会神地等待下一个音符、下一个歌句，世界上的一切被分成三拍：“Oh，mio　crudele　affetto…①一、二、三、……一、二……三……一……Oh　mio　crudele　affetto…一、二、三……一。唉，我们的生活多么荒谬啊！”尼古拉想道。“所有这一切，不幸也好，金钱也好，多洛霍夫也好，愤恨也好，荣誉也好，这一切全是废话……只有这才是真正的东西。嗬，娜塔莎，嗬，亲爱的！啊，吗呀！……她怎样唱好这个si？唱好了！谢天谢地！”他自己也没有发觉他在唱歌，为着要加强这个si，他用了高三度的第二音。“我的天！多么好！我难道唱出来了？多么幸运！”

他想了想。

①意大利语：啊，我的残酷的爱情……

啊，这个三度音颤动得多么厉害，罗斯托夫心灵中至为美好的东西被触动了。它不以世界上的一切为转移，它高于世界上的一切！赌场上的输钱、多洛霍夫之流、谎言，可是不成！……全是废话！即使杀人、偷窃，在听到歌声时，仍旧觉得幸福……