War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy [636]
“This is my niece,” said the count, introducing Sonya, “have you met her, Princess?”
The princess turned to her and, trying to stifle the animosity for this girl that arose in her heart, kissed her. But she was beginning to be pained, because the mood of everyone around her was so far from all that was in her soul.
“Where is he?” she asked once more, addressing them all.
“He’s downstairs, Natasha’s with him,” Sonya replied, blushing. “I’ve sent to inquire. You must be tired, Princess?”
Tears of vexation came to the princess’s eyes. She turned away and was again about to ask the countess how to go to him, when light, impetuous, as if merry footsteps were heard at the door. The princess looked and saw Natasha almost running in, that Natasha whom she had so disliked when they had met in Moscow long ago.
But the princess had barely glanced at the face of this Natasha when she understood that this was a sincere companion in grief, and therefore her friend. She rushed to meet her and, embracing her, burst into tears on her shoulder.
As soon as Natasha, who had been sitting by Prince Andrei’s head, learned of Princess Marya’s arrival, she quietly left the room on those quick steps—merry, as it had seemed to Princess Marya—and ran to her.
On her anxious face, when she ran into the room, there was only one expression—an expression of love, of boundless love for him, for her, for everything that was close to the man she loved, an expression of pity, of suffering for others, and a passionate desire to give all of herself to help them. It was clear that at that moment there was not a single thought of herself or her relations to him in Natasha’s soul.
The sensitive Princess Marya understood all that from her first glance at Natasha’s face, and with grieving pleasure she wept on her shoulder.
“Come, come to him, Marie,” said Natasha, leading her to the other room.
Princess Marya raised her face, wiped her tears, and turned to Natasha. She felt that from her she would understand and learn everything.
“How is…” she began the question, but suddenly stopped. She felt that it was impossible either to ask or to answer in words. Natasha’s face and eyes would tell her more clearly and profoundly.
Natasha looked at her, but seemed to be afraid and doubtful whether to tell all she knew; it was as if she felt before those luminous eyes, which penetrated to the very bottom of her heart, that it was impossible not to tell the whole truth as she saw it. Natasha’s lip suddenly trembled, ugly wrinkles formed around her mouth, and, bursting into sobs, she covered her face with her hands.
Princess Marya understood everything.
But even so she hoped and asked in words she did not believe in:
“But how is his wound? What condition is he in generally?”
“You…you’ll see,” was all Natasha could say.
They sat for a while downstairs, near his room, in order to stop crying and go in with calm faces.
“How has the whole illness gone? Has he been worse for long? When did this happen?” asked Princess Marya.
Natasha told her that at first there had been danger from his high fever and suffering, but in the Trinity monastery that had gone away, and the doctor had been afraid of only one thing—gangrene. But that danger, too, had passed. When they arrived in Yaroslavl, the wound had begun to fester (Natasha knew everything to do with festering and so on), and the doctor had said that the festering might take the right course. There was fever. The doctor had said that this fever was not dangerous.
“But two days ago,” Natasha began, “this suddenly happened…” She suppressed her sobs. “I don’t know, but you’ll see how he’s become.”
“He’s grown weaker? thinner?…” asked the princess.
“No, not that, but worse. You’ll see. Ah, Marie, Marie, he’s too good, he can’t, he can’t live, because…”
XV
When Natasha opened his door with