War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy [214]
Two hours after that, Prince Andrei went into his father’s study with quiet steps. The old man already knew everything. He was standing just by the door, and as soon as it opened, the old man silently embraced his son’s neck with his old, tough arms, as in a vise, and burst into sobs like a child.
Three days later the funeral service was held for the little princess, and, in bidding farewell to her, Prince Andrei went up the steps to the coffin. She had the same face in the coffin, though her eyes were closed. “Ah, what have you done to me?” it kept saying, and Prince Andrei felt that something snapped in his soul, that he was to blame for something he could neither set aright nor forget. He was unable to weep. The old man also came and kissed her waxen little hand, which lay calmly over the other hand, and to him her face also said: “Ah, what is it that you have done to me and why?” And the old man turned angrily away on seeing that face.
After another five days, the young prince Nikolai Andreich was baptized. The foster mother held the swaddling clothes up with her chin, while the priest anointed the boy’s wrinkled red palms and feet with a goose feather.
The godfather—his grandfather—in fear of dropping him, shook as he carried the infant around the dented tin baptismal font, and then handed him to his godmother, Princess Marya. Prince Andrei, his heart sinking for fear they would drown the baby, sat in another room, waiting for the sacrament to be over. He looked joyfully at the baby when the nanny brought him out to him and nodded approvingly when the nanny told him that, when thrown into the font, the piece of wax with the baby’s hair had not sunk, but had floated in the font.16
X
Rostov’s participation in the duel between Dolokhov and Bezukhov was hushed up through the efforts of the old count, and Rostov, instead of being demoted, as he expected, was appointed adjutant to the governor general of Moscow. As a result of that, he could not go to the country with the whole family, but remained in Moscow all summer with his new duties. Dolokhov recovered, and Rostov became especially close to him during the time of his convalescence. Dolokhov lay ill at his mother’s, who loved him passionately and tenderly. Old Marya Ivanovna came to love Rostov for his friendship with Fedya, and often spoke with him about her son.
“Yes, Count,” she used to say, “he’s too noble and pure-hearted for the depraved world of our time. No one loves virtue, it’s a sty in everyone’s eye. Now tell me, Count, was it fair, was it honest on Bezukhov’s part? Yet Fedya, in his nobility, loved him and never says anything bad about him even now. All that mischief with the policeman in Petersburg, some sort of fools’ play, didn’t they do it together? Why, nothing happened to Bezukhov, and Fedya had to bear it all on his shoulders! He’s had to bear so much! Suppose they did restore him, but how could they not? I don’t think there were so many brave sons of the fatherland like him there. And now—this duel. Do these people have any feeling, any honor? To challenge him to a duel, knowing he’s an only son, and shoot straight at him! It’s a good thing God was merciful to us. And for what? Who in our time doesn’t have love affairs? Why, if he was so jealous—I can understand—then he should have let him feel it sooner, but no, it lasted a whole year. And so he challenged him to a duel, assuming that Fedya wouldn’t fight because he owed him money. How mean! How vile! I know you’ve understood Fedya, my dear count, that’s why I love you from the heart, believe me. Few people understand him. He’s such a lofty, heavenly soul…”
Dolokhov himself, during his convalescence, often spoke such words to Rostov as he could never have expected from him.
“People consider me a wicked man, I know,” he used to say, “and let them. I don’t care about anyone except those I love; but those I love, I love so much that I’d give my life for them, and the rest I’d crush if they stood in my way. I have an adored, a priceless