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"
My
cousin
has
nothing
to
do
with
this
and
it
's
not
necessary
to
mention
her
!
"
he
exclaimed
fiercely
.
"
Then
when
am
I
to
have
it
?
"
"
Tomorrow
,
"
replied
Rostóv
and
left
the
room
.
To
say
"
tomorrow
"
and
keep
up
a
dignified
tone
was
not
difficult
,
but
to
go
home
alone
,
see
his
sisters
,
brother
,
mother
,
and
father
,
confess
and
ask
for
money
he
had
no
right
to
after
giving
his
word
of
honor
,
was
terrible
.
At
home
,
they
had
not
yet
gone
to
bed
.
The
young
people
,
after
returning
from
the
theater
,
had
had
supper
and
were
grouped
round
the
clavichord
.
As
soon
as
Nicholas
entered
,
he
was
enfolded
in
that
poetic
atmosphere
of
love
which
pervaded
the
Rostóv
household
that
winter
and
,
now
after
Dólokhov
's
proposal
and
Iogel
's
ball
,
seemed
to
have
grown
thicker
round
Sónya
and
Natásha
as
the
air
does
before
a
thunderstorm
.
Sónya
and
Natásha
,
in
the
light-blue
dresses
they
had
worn
at
the
theater
,
looking
pretty
and
conscious
of
it
,
were
standing
by
the
clavichord
,
happy
and
smiling
.
Véra
was
playing
chess
with
Shinshín
in
the
drawing
room
.
The
old
countess
,
waiting
for
the
return
of
her
husband
and
son
,
sat
playing
patience
with
the
old
gentlewoman
who
lived
in
their
house
.
Denísov
,
with
sparkling
eyes
and
ruffled
hair
,
sat
at
the
clavichord
striking
chords
with
his
short
fingers
,
his
legs
thrown
back
and
his
eyes
rolling
as
he
sang
,
with
his
small
,
husky
,
but
true
voice
,
some
verses
called
"
Enchantress
,
"
which
he
had
composed
,
and
to
which
he
was
trying
to
fit
music
:
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
.
