War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy [429]
The countess, trying to conceal this action from herself and the doctor, would put a gold piece in his hand and go back to her daughter each time with her heart more at ease.
The signs of Natasha’s illness were that she ate little, slept little, coughed, and never became animated. The doctors said that the sick girl must not be left without medical help, and therefore she was kept in the close air of the city. In the summer of 1812, the Rostovs did not leave for the country.
Despite the large quantity of pills, drops, and powders she had swallowed, from little jars and boxes of which Madame Schoss, a great lover of such objects, had assembled a large collection, despite the absence of her accustomed country life, youth had its way: Natasha’s grief began to be covered over by the impressions of ongoing life, it ceased to weigh with such tormenting pain on her heart, it began to become the past, and Natasha started to recover physically.
XVII
Natasha was more calm, but not more cheerful. She not only avoided all external conditions of joyfulness—balls, promenades, concerts, the theater—but she never once laughed so that tears were not heard behind her laughter. She could not sing. As soon as she began to laugh or tried to sing when she was by herself, tears choked her: tears of remorse, tears of remembrance of that irretrievable time of purity, tears of vexation that just so, for nothing, she had ruined her young life, which might have been so happy. Laughter and singing especially seemed to her a blasphemy against her grief. Of coquetry she never even thought; there was no need for her to restrain herself. She said and felt that at that time all men were for her exactly like the buffoon Nastasya Ivanovna. An inner guard firmly forbade her every joy. And there were in her none of those former interests of life from the girlish, carefree, hope-filled life she used to lead. Most often and most painfully of all she remembered those autumn months, the hunting, the uncle, and Christmastime spent with Nicolas at Otradnoe. What would she not have given to bring back just one day of that time! But now it was over forever. Her presentiment had not deceived her then, that that state of freedom and openness to all joys would never return again. Yet one had to live.
It comforted her to think that she was not better, as she had thought before, but worse, much worse, than everyone, everyone in the world. But that was not all. She knew it, and asked herself: “And what then?” And then there was nothing. There was no joy in life, and life was going by. Natasha clearly tried only not to be a burden to anyone or to bother anyone, but for herself she wanted nothing. She avoided everyone in the house, and only felt at ease with her brother Petya. She liked being with him more than with the others; and sometimes, when they were alone together, she laughed. She hardly ever left the house, and of those who came to see them, she was glad only of Pierre. It was impossible to treat her more tenderly, more carefully, and at the same time more seriously, than Count Bezukhov treated her. Natasha unconsciously felt this tenderness of his treatment and therefore found great pleasure in his company. But she was not even grateful to him for his tenderness; nothing good on Pierre’s part seemed an effort to her. It seemed so natural for Pierre to be kind to everyone, that there was no merit in his kindness. Occasionally Natasha noticed Pierre’s embarrassment and awkwardness in her presence, especially when he wanted to do something to please her, or when he was afraid that something in their conversation might lead Natasha to painful memories. She noticed it and ascribed it to his general kindness