War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy [211]
VIII
“Ma bonne amie,” the little princess said on the morning of the nineteenth of March, and her mustached little lip rose by old habit; but as, ever since the day the terrible news had been received, there had been sorrow not only in the smiles, but in the sounds of talk, even in the footsteps in that house, so now the smile of the little princess, who had succumbed to the general mood—though she did not know its cause—was such that it was all the more a reminder of the general sorrow.
“Ma bonne amie, je crains que le fruschtique (comme dit Foka, the cook) de ce matin ne m’aie pas fait du mal.”*282
“What’s the matter, darling? You’re pale. Ah, you’re very pale,” Princess Marya said fearfully, rushing to her sister-in-law with her heavy, soft steps.
“Your Excellency, shouldn’t we send for Marya Bogdanovna?” asked one of the maids. (Marya Bogdanovna was a midwife from the provincial capital, who had already been living at Bald Hills for over a week.)
“Indeed,” Princess Marya picked up, “you may be right. I’ll go. Courage, mon ange!”†283 She kissed Liza and was about to leave the room.
“Ah, no, no!”—and besides the paleness, the face of the little princess showed a childish fear of unavoidable physical suffering.
“Non, c’est l’estomac…dites que c’est l’estomac, dites, Marie, dites…”*284 And the princess wept with a capricious child’s suffering, even shamming somewhat, wringing her little hands. The princess ran out of the room to fetch Marya Bogdanovna.
“Oh! Mon dieu! Mon dieu!” she heard behind her.
The midwife was already coming to meet her, with a significantly calm face, rubbing her small, plump, white hands.
“Marya Bogdanovna! It seems it’s begun,” said Princess Marya, looking at the midwife with frightened, wide-open eyes.
“Well, thank God, Princess,” Marya Bogdanovna said, without quickening her pace. “You young girls oughtn’t to know about these things.”
“But the doctor hasn’t come from Moscow yet,” said the princess. (At the wishes of Liza and Prince Andrei, they had sent to Moscow in due time for an accoucheur, and he was expected at any moment.)
“Never mind, Princess, don’t worry,” said Marya Bogdanovna, “everything will be fine without the doctor.”
Five minutes later, in her rooms, the princess heard something heavy being carried. She peeked out—the servants were for some reason carrying a leather sofa that had been in Prince Andrei’s study. There was something solemn and quiet in the carriers’ faces.
Princess Marya sat alone in her room, listening to the noises in the house, opening her door from time to time when someone passed by, and watching over what was happening in the corridor. Several women passed back and forth there with soft steps, glanced at the princess, and turned away from her. She did not dare ask anything, closed her door, returned to her room, and now sat in her armchair, now took her prayer book, now knelt before the icons. Unfortunately, and to her astonishment, she felt that prayer did not calm her agitation. Suddenly the door to her room opened quietly, and her old nanny Praskovya Savishna, who hardly ever came to her room, because the old prince forbade it, appeared in the doorway, her head bound with a kerchief.
“I’ve come to sit with you, Mashenka,” said the nanny, “and here I’ve brought the prince’s wedding candles15 to light before the saint, my angel,” she said, sighing.
“Ah, I’m so glad, nanny.”
“God is merciful, dear heart.” The nanny lit the gold-decorated candles in front of the icon stand and sat down by the door with her knitting. Princess Marya took a book and began to read. Only when steps or voices were heard, they looked at each other, the princess fearfully, questioningly, and the nanny soothingly. The same feeling that Princess Marya was experiencing as she sat in her room came over everyone and spread to all ends of the house. Following the belief that the less people know about