War and Peace by graf Leo Tolstoy
CHAPTER XV
1533 words | Chapter 297
When Natásha opened Prince Andrew’s door with a familiar movement and
let Princess Mary pass into the room before her, the princess felt the
sobs in her throat. Hard as she had tried to prepare herself, and now
tried to remain tranquil, she knew that she would be unable to look at
him without tears.
The princess understood what Natásha had meant by the words: “two days
ago this suddenly happened.” She understood those words to mean that he
had suddenly softened and that this softening and gentleness were signs
of approaching death. As she stepped to the door she already saw in
imagination Andrew’s face as she remembered it in childhood, a gentle,
mild, sympathetic face which he had rarely shown, and which therefore
affected her very strongly. She was sure he would speak soft, tender
words to her such as her father had uttered before his death, and
that she would not be able to bear it and would burst into sobs in his
presence. Yet sooner or later it had to be, and she went in. The sobs
rose higher and higher in her throat as she more and more clearly
distinguished his form and her shortsighted eyes tried to make out his
features, and then she saw his face and met his gaze.
He was lying in a squirrel-fur dressing gown on a divan, surrounded by
pillows. He was thin and pale. In one thin, translucently white hand
he held a handkerchief, while with the other he stroked the delicate
mustache he had grown, moving his fingers slowly. His eyes gazed at them
as they entered.
On seeing his face and meeting his eyes Princess Mary’s pace suddenly
slackened, she felt her tears dry up and her sobs ceased. She suddenly
felt guilty and grew timid on catching the expression of his face and
eyes.
“But in what am I to blame?” she asked herself. And his cold, stern look
replied: “Because you are alive and thinking of the living, while I...”
In the deep gaze that seemed to look not outwards but inwards there
was an almost hostile expression as he slowly regarded his sister and
Natásha.
He kissed his sister, holding her hand in his as was their wont.
“How are you, Mary? How did you manage to get here?” said he in a voice
as calm and aloof as his look.
Had he screamed in agony, that scream would not have struck such horror
into Princess Mary’s heart as the tone of his voice.
“And have you brought little Nicholas?” he asked in the same slow, quiet
manner and with an obvious effort to remember.
“How are you now?” said Princess Mary, herself surprised at what she was
saying.
“That, my dear, you must ask the doctor,” he replied, and again making
an evident effort to be affectionate, he said with his lips only (his
words clearly did not correspond to his thoughts):
“Merci, chère amie, d’être venue.” *
* “Thank you for coming, my dear.”
Princess Mary pressed his hand. The pressure made him wince just
perceptibly. He was silent, and she did not know what to say. She now
understood what had happened to him two days before. In his words, his
tone, and especially in that calm, almost antagonistic look could be
felt an estrangement from everything belonging to this world, terrible
in one who is alive. Evidently only with an effort did he understand
anything living; but it was obvious that he failed to understand, not
because he lacked the power to do so but because he understood something
else—something the living did not and could not understand—and which
wholly occupied his mind.
“There, you see how strangely fate has brought us together,” said he,
breaking the silence and pointing to Natásha. “She looks after me all
the time.”
Princess Mary heard him and did not understand how he could say such a
thing. He, the sensitive, tender Prince Andrew, how could he say that,
before her whom he loved and who loved him? Had he expected to live he
could not have said those words in that offensively cold tone. If he had
not known that he was dying, how could he have failed to pity her and
how could he speak like that in her presence? The only explanation was
that he was indifferent, because something else, much more important,
had been revealed to him.
The conversation was cold and disconnected and continually broke off.
“Mary came by way of Ryazán,” said Natásha.
Prince Andrew did not notice that she called his sister Mary, and only
after calling her so in his presence did Natásha notice it herself.
“Really?” he asked.
“They told her that all Moscow has been burned down, and that...”
Natásha stopped. It was impossible to talk. It was plain that he was
making an effort to listen, but could not do so.
“Yes, they say it’s burned,” he said. “It’s a great pity,” and he gazed
straight before him, absently stroking his mustache with his fingers.
“And so you have met Count Nicholas, Mary?” Prince Andrew suddenly said,
evidently wishing to speak pleasantly to them. “He wrote here that he
took a great liking to you,” he went on simply and calmly, evidently
unable to understand all the complex significance his words had for
living people. “If you liked him too, it would be a good thing for you
to get married,” he added rather more quickly, as if pleased at having
found words he had long been seeking.
Princess Mary heard his words but they had no meaning for her, except as
a proof of how far away he now was from everything living.
“Why talk of me?” she said quietly and glanced at Natásha.
Natásha, who felt her glance, did not look at her. All three were again
silent.
“Andrew, would you like...” Princess Mary suddenly said in a trembling
voice, “would you like to see little Nicholas? He is always talking
about you!”
Prince Andrew smiled just perceptibly and for the first time, but
Princess Mary, who knew his face so well, saw with horror that he did
not smile with pleasure or affection for his son, but with quiet, gentle
irony because he thought she was trying what she believed to be the last
means of arousing him.
“Yes, I shall be very glad to see him. Is he quite well?”
When little Nicholas was brought into Prince Andrew’s room he looked at
his father with frightened eyes, but did not cry, because no one else
was crying. Prince Andrew kissed him and evidently did not know what to
say to him.
When Nicholas had been led away, Princess Mary again went up to her
brother, kissed him, and unable to restrain her tears any longer began
to cry.
He looked at her attentively.
“Is it about Nicholas?” he asked.
Princess Mary nodded her head, weeping.
“Mary, you know the Gosp...” but he broke off.
“What did you say?”
“Nothing. You mustn’t cry here,” he said, looking at her with the same
cold expression.
When Princess Mary began to cry, he understood that she was crying at
the thought that little Nicholas would be left without a father. With
a great effort he tried to return to life and to see things from their
point of view.
“Yes, to them it must seem sad!” he thought. “But how simple it is.
“The fowls of the air sow not, neither do they reap, yet your Father
feedeth them,” he said to himself and wished to say to Princess Mary;
“but no, they will take it their own way, they won’t understand! They
can’t understand that all those feelings they prize so—all our feelings,
all those ideas that seem so important to us, are unnecessary. We cannot
understand one another,” and he remained silent.
Prince Andrew’s little son was seven. He could scarcely read, and knew
nothing. After that day he lived through many things, gaining knowledge,
observation, and experience, but had he possessed all the faculties he
afterwards acquired, he could not have had a better or more profound
understanding of the meaning of the scene he had witnessed between
his father, Mary, and Natásha, than he had then. He understood it
completely, and, leaving the room without crying, went silently up
to Natásha who had come out with him and looked shyly at her with his
beautiful, thoughtful eyes, then his uplifted, rosy upper lip trembled
and leaning his head against her he began to cry.
After that he avoided Dessalles and the countess who caressed him and
either sat alone or came timidly to Princess Mary, or to Natásha of whom
he seemed even fonder than of his aunt, and clung to them quietly and
shyly.
When Princess Mary had left Prince Andrew she fully understood what
Natásha’s face had told her. She did not speak any more to Natásha of
hopes of saving his life. She took turns with her beside his sofa, and
did not cry any more, but prayed continually, turning in soul to that
Eternal and Unfathomable, whose presence above the dying man was now so
evident.
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