《War And Peace》Book12 CHAPTER XIV

《War And Peace》　Book12 　CHAPTER XIV
　　　　by Leo Tolstoy

ON HEARING from Nikolay that her brother was at Yaroslavl with the Rostovs,
Princess Marya, in spite of her aunt's efforts to dissuade her, prepared at once
to go to him and to go not alone, but with her nephew; whether this were
difficult or not, whether it were possible or not, she did not inquire, and did
not care to know: it was her duty not only to be herself at the side of
her—perhaps dying—brother, but to do everything possible to take his son to him,
and she prepared to set off. If Prince Andrey had not himself communicated with
her, Princess Marya put that down either to his being too weak to write, or to
his considering the long journey too difficult and dangerous for her and his
son.

Within a few days Princess Marya was ready for the journey. Her equipage
consisted of her immense travelling coach in which she had come to Voronezh, and
a covered trap and a waggon. She was accompanied by Mademoiselle Bourienne,
Nikolushka, with his tutor, the old nurse, three maids, Tihon, a young valet,
and a courier, whom her aunt was sending with her.

To travel by the usual route to Moscow was not to be thought of, and the
circuitous route which Princess Marya was obliged to take by Lipetsk, Ryazan,
Vladimir, and Shuya was very long; from lack of posting horses difficult; and in
the neighbourhood of Ryazan, where they were told the French had begun to
appear, positively dangerous.

During this difficult journey, Mademoiselle Bourienne, Dessalle, and Princess
Marya's servants were astonished at the tenacity of her will and her energy. She
was the last to go to rest, the first to rise, and no difficulty could daunt
her. Thanks to her activity and energy, which infected her companions, she was
towards the end of the second week close upon Yaroslavl.

The latter part of her stay in Voronezh had been the happiest period in
Princess Marya's life. Her love for Rostov was not then a source of torment or
agitation to her. That love had by then filled her whole soul and become an
inseparable part of herself, and she no longer struggled against it. Of late
Princess Marya was convinced—though she never clearly in so many words admitted
it to herself—that she loved and was beloved. She had been convinced of this by
her last interview with Nikolay when he came to tell her that her brother was
with the Rostovs. Nikolay did not by one word hint at the possibility now (in
case of Prince Andrey's recovery) of his engagement to Natasha being renewed,
but Princess Marya saw by his face that he knew and thought of it. And in spite
of that, his attitude to her—solicitous, tender, and loving—was so far from
being changed, that he seemed overjoyed indeed that now a sort of kinship
between him and Princess Marya allowed him to give freer expression to his
loving friendship, as Princess Marya sometimes thought it. Princess Marya knew
that she loved for the first and last time in her life, and felt that she was
loved, and she was happy and at peace in that relation.

But this happiness on one side of her spiritual nature was far from hindering
her from feeling intense grief on her brother's account. On the contrary, her
spiritual peace on that side enabled her to give herself more completely to her
feeling for her brother. This feeling was so strong at the moment of setting out
from Voronezh that all her retinue were persuaded, looking at her careworn,
despairing face, that she would certainly fall ill on the journey. But the very
difficulties and anxieties of the journey, which Princess Marya tackled with
such energy, saved her for the time from her sorrow and gave her strength.

As is always the case on a journey, Princess Marya thought of nothing but the
journey itself, forgetting what was its object. But on approaching Yaroslavl,
when what might await her—and not now at the end of many days, but that very
evening—became clear to her mind again, her agitation reached its utmost
limits.

When the courier, whom she had sent on ahead to find out in Yaroslavl where
the Rostovs were staying, and in what condition Prince Andrey was, met the GREat
travelling coach at the city gate he was frightened at the terribly pale face
that looked out at him from the window.

“I have found out everything, your excellency: the Rostovs are staying in the
square, in the house of a merchant, Bronnikov. Not far off, right above the
Volga,” said the courier.

Princess Marya looked into his face with frightened inquiry, not
understanding why he did not answer her chief question. How was her brother?
Mademoiselle Bourienne put this question for the princess.

“How is the prince?” she asked.

“His excellency is staying in the same house with them.”

“He is living, then,” thought the princess; and she softly asked, “How is
he?”

“The servants say, ‘No change.' ”

What was meant by “no change” the princess did not inquire, and with a
passing, hardly perceptible, glance at little seven-year-old Nikolushka, sitting
before her, delighted at the sight of the town, she bowed her head, and did not
raise it again till the heavy carriage—rumbling, jolting, and swaying from side
to side—came to a standstill. The carriage-steps were let down with a
crash.

The carriage-door was opened. On the left was water—a broad river; on the
right, entrance steps. At the entrance were people, servants, and a rosy-faced
girl with a thick coil of black hair, who smiled at her in an unpleasantly
affected way, as it seemed to Princess Marya (it was Sonya). The princess ran up
the steps; the girl, smiling affectedly, said, “This way! this way!” and the
princess found herself in the vestibule, facing an elderly woman of an Oriental
type of face, who came rapidly to meet her, looking moved. It was the countess.
She embraced Princess Marya and proceeded to kiss her.

“My child,” she said, “I love you, and have known you a long while.”

In spite of her emotion, Princess Marya knew it was the countess, and that
she must say something to her. Not knowing how she did it, she uttered some
polite French phrases in the tone in which she had been addressed, and asked,
“How is he?”

“The doctor says there is no danger,” said the countess; but as she said it
she sighed, and turned her eyes upwards, and this gesture contradicted her
words.

“Where is he? Can I see him; can I?” asked the princess.

“In a minute; in a minute, my dear. Is this his son?” she said, turning to
Nikolushka, who came in with Dessalle. “We shall find room for every one; the
house is large. Oh, what a charming boy!”

The countess led the princess into the drawing-room. Sonya began to converse
with Mademoiselle Bourienne. The countess caressed the child. The old count came
into the room to welcome the princess. He was extraordinarily changed since
Princess Marya had seen him last. Then he had been a jaunty, gay, self-confident
old gentleman, now he seemed a pitiful, bewildered creature. As he talked to the
princess, he was continually looking about him, as though asking every one if he
were doing the right thing. After the destruction of Moscow and the loss of his
property, driven out of his accustomed rut, he had visibly lost the sense of his
own importance, and felt that there was no place for him in life.

In spite of her one desire to see her brother without loss of time, and her
vexation that at that moment, when all she wanted was to see him, they should
entertain her conventionally with praises of her nephew, the princess observed
all that was passing around her, and felt it inevitable for the time to fall in
with the new order of things into which she had entered. She knew that all this
was inevitable, and it was hard for her, but she felt no grudge against them for
it.

“This is my niece,” said the countess, presenting Sonya; “you do not know
her, princess?”

Princess Marya turned to her, and trying to smother the feeling of hostility
that rose up within her at the sight of this girl, she kissed her. But she felt
painfully how out of keeping was the mood of every one around her with what was
filling her own breast.

“Where is he?” she asked once more, addressing them all.

“He is downstairs; Natasha is with him,” answered Sonya, flushing. “We have
sent to ask. You are tired, I expect, princess?”

Tears of vexation came into Princess Marya's eyes. She turned away and was
about to ask the countess again where she could see him, when she heard at the
door light, eager steps that sounded to her full of gaiety. She looked round and
saw, almost running in, Natasha — that Natasha whom she had so disliked when
they met long before in Moscow.

But Princess Marya had hardly glanced at Natasha's face before she understood
that here was one who sincerely shared her grief, and was therefore her friend.
She flew to meet her, and embracing her, burst into tears on her shoulder.

As soon as Natasha, sitting by Prince Andrey's bedside, heard of Princess
Marya's arrival, she went softly out of the room with those swift steps that to
Princess Marya sounded so light-hearted, and ran to see her.

As she ran into the room, her agitated face wore one expression — an
expression of love, of boundless love for him, for her, for all that was near to
the man she loved — an expression of pity, of suffering for others, and of
passionate desire to give herself up entirely to helping them. It was clear that
at that moment there was not one thought of self, of her own relation to him, in
Natasha's heart.

Princess Marya with her delicate intuition saw all that in the first glance
at Natasha's face, and with mournful relief wept on her shoulder.

“Come, let us go to him, Marie,” said Natasha, drawing her away into the next
room.

Princess Marya lifted up her head, dried her eyes, and turned to Natasha. She
felt that from her she would learn all, would understand all. “How …” she was
beginning, but stopped short. She felt that no question nor answer could be put
into words. Natasha's face and eyes would be sure to tell her all more clearly
and more profoundly.

Natasha looked at her, but seemed to be in dread and in doubt whether to say
or not to say all she knew; she seemed to feel that before those luminous eyes,
piercing to the very bottom of her heart, it was impossible not to tell the
whole, whole truth as she saw it. Natasha's lip suddenly twitched, ugly creases
came round her mouth, and she broke into sobs, hiding her face in her
hands.

Princess Marya knew everything.

But still she could not give up hope, and asked in words, though she put no
faith in them:

“But how is his wound? What is his condition altogether?”

“You … you will see that,” was all Natasha could say.

They sat a little while below, near his room, to control their tears and go
in to him with calm faces.

“How has the whole illness gone? Has he been worse for long? When did
this happen?” Princess Marya asked.

Natasha told her that at first there had been danger from inflammation and
the GREat pain, but that that had passed away at Troitsa, and the doctor had
only been afraid of one thing — gangrene. But the risk of that, too, was almost
over. When they reached Yaroslavl, the wound had begun to suppurate (Natasha
knew all about suppuration and all the rest of it), and the doctor had said that
the suppuration might follow the regular course. Fever had set in. The doctor
had said this fever was not so serious. “But two days ago,” Natasha began, “all
of a sudden this change came …” She struggled with her sobs. “I don't
know why, but you will see the change in him.”

“He is weaker? thinner? …” queried the princess.

“No, not that, but worse. You will see. O Marie, he is too good, he cannot,
he cannot live, because …”