ng the rapt gaze with which
Denisov followed her.

"And what is she so pleased about?" thought Nicholas, looking at his
sister. "Why isn't she dull and ashamed?"

Natasha took the first note, her throat swelled, her chest rose,
her eyes became serious. At that moment she was oblivious of her
surroundings, and from her smiling lips flowed 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 time thrill
you and make you weep.

Natasha, that winter, had for the first time begun to sing seriously,
mainly because Denisov so delighted in her singing. She no longer sang
as a child, there was no longer in her singing that comical, childish,
painstaking effect that had been in it before; but she did not yet sing
well, as all the connoisseurs who heard her said: "It is not trained,
but it is a beautiful voice that must be trained." Only they generally
said this some time after she had finished singing. While that untrained
voice, with its incorrect breathing and labored transitions, was
sounding, even the connoisseurs said nothing, but only delighted in
it and wished to hear it again. In her voice there was a virginal
freshness, an unconsciousness of her own powers, and an as yet untrained
velvety softness, which so mingled with her lack of art in singing that
it seemed as if nothing in that voice could be altered without spoiling
it.

"What is this?" thought Nicholas, listening to her with widely opened
eyes. "What has happened to her? How she is singing today!" And suddenly
the whole world centered for him on anticipation of the next note, the
next phrase, and everything in the world was divided into three beats:
"Oh mio crudele affetto."... One, two, three... one, two, three...
One... "Oh mio crudele affetto."... One, two, three... One. "Oh, this
senseless life of ours!" thought Nicholas. "All this misery, and money,
and Dolokhov, and anger, and honor--it's all nonsense... but this is
real.... Now then, Natasha, 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 Rostov's soul! And this something was apart from everything else
in t