《War And Peace》Book12 CHAPTER XV

《War And Peace》　Book12 　CHAPTER XV
　　　　by Leo Tolstoy

WHEN NATASHA opened the door with her practised hands, letting her pass in
before her, Princess Marya felt the sobs rising in her throat. However much she
prepared herself, however much she tried to compose herself, she knew that she
would not be able to see him without tears:

She understood what Natasha had meant by the words: two days ago this
change came. She interpreted it as meaning that he had suddenly grown
softer, and that that softening, that tenderness, was the sign of death. As she
approached the door, she saw already in her imagination that face of the little
Andryusha, as she had known it in childhood, tender, gentle, softened, as it was
so rarely, and as it affected her so strongly. She felt sure he would say soft,
tender words to her like those her father had uttered on his deathbed, and that
she would not be able to bear it, and would break into sobs at them. But sooner
or later, it must be, and she went into the room. Her sobs seemed rising higher
and higher in her throat as with her short-sighted eyes she distinguished his
figure more and more clearly, and now she saw his face and met his eyes.

He was lying on a couch, propped up with cushions, in a squirrel-lined
dressing-gown. He was thin and pale. One thin, transparently white hand held a
handkerchief, with the other he was softly fingering the delicate moustache that
had grown long. His eyes gazed at them as they came in.

On seeing his face and meeting his eyes, Princess Marya at once slackened the
rapidity of her step and felt the tears dried up and the sobs checked. As she
caught the expression of his face and eyes, she felt suddenly shy and
guilty.

“But how am I in fault?” she asked herself. “In being alive and thinking of
the living while I! …” his cold, stern eyes seemed to answer.

In the profound, not outward- but inward-looking gaze there was something
almost like hostility as he deliberately scanned his sister and Natasha. He
kissed his sister's hand, while she kissed his, as their habit was.

“How are you, Marie; how did you manage to get here?” he said, in a voice as
even and as aloof as the look in his eyes. If he had uttered a shriek of
despair, that shriek would have been to Princess Marya less awful than the sound
of his voice.

“And you have brought Nikolushka?” he said, as evenly and deliberately, with
an evident effort to recollect things.

“How are you now?” said Princess Marya, wondering herself at what she was
saying.

“That, my dear, you must ask the doctor,” he said, and evidently making
another effort to be affectionate, he said with his lips only (it was obvious he
was not thinking of what he was saying):

“Thank you, my dear, for coming.”

Princess Marya pressed his hand. He gave a hardly perceptible frown at the
pressure of her hand. She was silent, and she did not know what to say. She
understood the change that had come over him two days ago. In his words, in his
tone, above all in his eyes—those cold, almost antagonistic eyes—could be felt
that aloofness from all things earthly that is so fearful to a living man. It
was evidently with difficulty that he understood anything living; but yet it
seemed that he did not understand what was living, not because he had lost the
power of understanding, but because he understood something else that the living
did not and could not understand, and that entirely absorbed him.

“Yes, see how strangely fate has brought us together again,” he said,
breaking the silence, and pointing to Natasha. “She is nursing me.”

Princess Marya heard him, and could not understand what he was saying. He,
Prince Andrey, with his delicate, tender intuition, how could he say that before
the girl whom he loved, and who loved him! If he had any thought of living, he
could not have said that in that slightingly cold tone. If he had not known he
was going to die, how could he have failed to feel for her, how could he speak
like that before her! There could be but one explanation of it—that was, that it
was all of no moment to him now, and of no moment because something else, more
important, had been revealed to him.

The conversation was frigid and disconnected, and broke off at every
moment.

“Marie came by Ryazan,” said Natasha.

Prince Andrey did not notice that she called his sister Marie. And Natasha,
calling her by that name before him, for the first time became aware of it
herself.

“Well?” said he.

“She was told that Moscow had been burnt to the ground, all of it entirely.
That it looks as though …”

Natasha stopped. It was impossible to talk. He was obviously making an effort
to listen, and yet he could not.

“Yes; it's burnt, they say,” he said. “That's a GREat pity,” and he gazed
straight before him, his fingers straying heedlessly about his moustache.

“And so you met Count Nikolay, Marie?” said Prince Andrey, suddenly,
evidently trying to say something to please them. “He wrote here what a GREat
liking he took to you,” he went on, simply and calmly, plainly unable to grasp
all the complex significance his words had for living people. “If you liked him,
too, it would be a very good thing … for you to get married,” he added, rather
more quickly, apparently pleased at finding at last the words he had been
seeking. Princess Marya heard his words, but they had no significance for her
except as showing how terribly far away he was now from everything living.

“Why talk of me?” she said calmly, and glanced at Natasha. Natasha, feeling
her eyes on her, did not look at her. Again all of them were silent.

“Andrey, would you …” Princess Marya said suddenly in a shaky voice, “would
you like to see Nikolushka? He is always talking of you.”

For the first time Prince Andrey smiled a faintly perceptible smile, but
Princess Marya, who knew his face so well, saw with horror that it was a smile
not of joy, not of tenderness for his son, but of quiet, gentle irony at his
sister's trying what she believed to be the last resource for rousing him to
feeling.

“Yes, I shall be very glad to see Nikolushka. Is he quite well?”

When they brought in little Nikolushka, who gazed in dismay at his father,
but did not cry, because nobody else was crying, Prince Andrey kissed him, and
obviously did not know what to say to him.

When they had taken the child away, Princess Marya went up to her brother
once more, kissed him, and unable to control herself any longer, began to
weep.

He looked at her intently.

“You weep for Nikolushka?” he asked.

Princess Marya nodded through her tears.

“Marie, you know the Gos …” he began, but suddenly paused.

“What do you say?”

“Nothing. You mustn't weep here,” he said, looking at her with the same cold
eyes.

When Princess Marya wept he knew that she was weeping that Nikolushka would
be left without a father. With a GREat effort he tried to come back again to
life, and to put himself at their point of view.

“Yes, it must seem sad to them,” he thought. “But how simple it is!”

“ ‘They sow not, neither do they reap, but your Father feedeth them,' ” he
said to himself, and he wanted to say it to his sister. But no, they would
understand it in their own way; they would not understand! What they cannot
understand is that these feelings that they set store by—all our feelings, all
these thoughts, which seem of so much importance to us—that they are all not
wanted! We cannot understand each other!” and he was silent.

Prince Andrey's little son was seven years old. He could hardly read—he knew
nothing. He passed through much after that day, gaining knowledge, observation,
experience. But if he had possessed at that time all the mental faculties he
acquired afterwards, he could not have had a truer, a deeper comprehension of
all the significance of the scene he saw passing between his father, Princess
Marya, and Natasha than he had now. He understood it all, and without weeping,
went out of the room, in silence went up to Natasha, who had followed him out;
glanced shyly at her with his beautiful, dreamy eyes: his uplifted, rosy upper
lip quivered; he leaned his head against her, and burst into tears.

From that day he avoided Dessalle, avoided the countess, who would have
petted him, and either sat alone, or shyly joined Princess Marya and Natasha,
whom he seemed to love even more than his aunt, and bestowed shy and gentle
caresses upon them.

When Princess Marya left her brother's side, she fully understood all that
Natasha's face had told her. She spoke no more to Natasha of hope of saving his
life. She took turns with her by his bedside, and she shed no more tears, but
prayed without ceasing, turning in spirit to the Eternal and Unfathomable whose
presence was palpable now, hovering over the dying man.