War And Peace: Book 12 - CHAPTER XV

Description

WHEN NATASHA opened the door with her practised hands, letting her pass in

before her, Princess Marya felt the sobs rising in her throat. However much she

prepared herself, however much she tried to compose herself, she knew that she

would not be able to see him without tears:

She understood what Natasha had meant by the words: two days ago this

change came. She interpreted it as meaning that he had suddenly grown

softer, and that that softening, that tenderness, was the sign of death. As she

approached the door, she saw already in her imagination that face of the little

Andryusha, as she had known it in childhood, tender, gentle, softened, as it was

so rarely, and as it affected her so strongly. She felt sure he would say soft,

tender words to her like those her father had uttered on his deathbed, and that

she would not be able to bear it, and would break into sobs at them. But sooner

or later, it must be, and she went into the room. Her sobs seemed rising higher

and higher in her throat as with her short-sighted eyes she distinguished his

figure more and more clearly, and now she saw his face and met his eyes.

He was lying on a couch, propped up with cushions, in a squirrel-lined

dressing-gown. He was thin and pale. One thin, transparently white hand held a

handkerchief, with the other he was softly fingering the delicate moustache that

had grown long. His eyes gazed at them as they came in.

On seeing his face and meeting his eyes, Princess Marya at once slackened the

rapidity of her step and felt the tears dried up and the sobs checked. As she

caught the expression of his face and eyes, she felt suddenly shy and

guilty.

“But how am I in fault?” she asked herself. “In being alive and thinking of

the living while I! …” his cold, stern eyes seemed to answer.

In the profound, not outward- but inward-looking gaze there was something

almost like hostility as he deliberately scanned his sister and Natasha. He

kissed his sister's hand, while she kissed his, as their habit was.

“How are you, Marie; how did you manage to get here?” he said, in a voice as

even and as aloof as the look in his eyes. If he had uttered a shriek of

despair, that shriek would have been to Princess Marya less awful than the sound

of his voice.

“And you have brought Nikolushka?” he said, as evenly and deliberately, with

an evident effort to recollect things.

“How are you now?” said Princess Marya, wondering herself at what she was

saying.

“That, my dear, you must ask the doctor,” he said, and evidently making

another effort to be affectionate, he said with his lips only (it was obvious he

was not thinking of what he was saying):

“Thank you, my dear, for coming.”

Princess Marya pressed his hand. He gave a hardly perceptible frown at the

pressure of her hand. She was silent, and she did not know what to say. She

understood the change that had come over him two days ago. In his words, in his

tone, above all in his eyes—those cold, almost antagonistic eyes—could be felt

that aloofness from all things earthly that is so fearful to a living man. It

was evidently with difficulty that he understood anything living; but yet it

seemed that he did not understand what was living, not because he had lost the

power of understanding, but because he understood something else that the living

did not and could not understand, and that entirely absorbed him.

“Yes, see how strangely fate has brought us together again,” he said,

breaking the silence, and pointing to Natasha. “She is nursing me.”

Princess Marya heard him, and could not understand what he was saying. He,

Prince Andrey, with his delicate, tender intuition, how could he say that before

the girl whom he loved, and who loved him! If he had any thought of living, he

could not have said that in that slightingly cold tone. If he had not known he

was going to die, how could he have failed to feel for her, how could he speak

like that before her! There could be but one explanation of it—that was, that it

was all of no moment to him now, and of no moment because something else, more

important, had been revealed to him.

The conversation was frigid and disconnected, and broke off at every

moment.

“Marie came by Ryazan,” said Natasha.

Prince Andrey did not notice that she called his sister Marie. And Natasha,

calling her by that name before him, for the first time became aware of it

herself.

“Well?” said he.

“She was told that Moscow had been burnt to the ground, all of it entirely.

That it looks as though …”

Natasha stopped. It was impossible to talk. He was obviously making an effort

to listen, and yet he could not.

“Yes; it's burnt, they say,” he said. “That's a great pity,” and he gazed

straight before him, his fingers straying heedlessly about his moustache.

“And so you met Count Nikolay, Marie?” said Prince Andrey, suddenly,

evidently trying to say something to please them. “He wrote here what a great

liking he took to you,” he went on, simply and calmly, plainly unable to grasp

all the complex significance his words had for living people. “If you liked him,

too, it would be a very good thing … for you to get married,” he added, rather

more quickly, apparently pleased at finding at last the words he had been

seeking. Princess Marya heard his words, but they had no significance for her

except as showing how terribly far away he was now from everything living.

“Why talk of me?” she said calmly, and glanced at Natasha. Natasha, feeling

her eyes on her, did not look at her. Again all of them were silent.

“Andrey, would you …” Princess Marya said suddenly in a shaky voice, “would

you like to see Nikolushka? He is always talking of you.”

For the first time Prince Andrey smiled a faintly perceptible smile, but

Princess Marya, who knew his face so well, saw with horror that it was a smile

not of joy, not of tenderness for his son, but of quiet, gentle irony at his

sister's trying what she believed to be the last resource for rousing him to

feeling.

“Yes, I shall be very glad to see Nikolushka. Is he quite well?”

When they brought in little Nikolushka, who gazed in dismay at his father,

but did not cry, because nobody else was crying, Prince Andrey kissed him, and

obviously did not know what to say to him.

When they had taken the child away, Princess Marya went up to her brother

once more, kissed him, and unable to control herself any longer, began to

weep.

He looked at her intently.

“You weep for Nikolushka?” he asked.

Princess Marya nodded through her tears.

“Marie, you know the Gos …” he began, but suddenly paused.

“What do you say?”

“Nothing. You mustn't weep here,” he said, looking at her with the same cold

eyes.

When Princess Marya wept he knew that she was weeping that Nikolushka would

be left without a father. With a great effort he tried to come back again to

life, and to put himself at their point of view.

“Yes, it must seem sad to them,” he thought. “But how simple it is!”

“ ‘They sow not, neither do they reap, but your Father feedeth them,' ” he

said to himself, and he wanted to say it to his sister. But no, they would

understand it in their own way; they would not understand! What they cannot

understand is that these feelings that they set store by—all our feelings, all

these thoughts, which seem of so much importance to us—that they are all not

wanted! We cannot understand each other!” and he was silent.

Prince Andrey's little son was seven years old. He could hardly read—he knew

nothing. He passed through much after that day, gaining knowledge, observation,

experience. But if he had possessed at that time all the mental faculties he

acquired afterwards, he could not have had a truer, a deeper comprehension of

all the significance of the scene he saw passing between his father, Princess

Marya, and Natasha than he had now. He understood it all, and without weeping,

went out of the room, in silence went up to Natasha, who had followed him out;

glanced shyly at her with his beautiful, dreamy eyes: his uplifted, rosy upper

lip quivered; he leaned his head against her, and burst into tears.

From that day he avoided Dessalle, avoided the countess, who would have

petted him, and either sat alone, or shyly joined Princess Marya and Natasha,

whom he seemed to love even more than his aunt, and bestowed shy and gentle

caresses upon them.

When Princess Marya left her brother's side, she fully understood all that

Natasha's face had told her. She spoke no more to Natasha of hope of saving his

life. She took turns with her by his bedside, and she shed no more tears, but

prayed without ceasing, turning in spirit to the Eternal and Unfathomable whose

presence was palpable now, hovering over the dying man.

$$ Buy "War And Peace: Book 12 - CHAPTER XV" on Amazon $$

Please check the description for download links if any or do a search to find alternative books.

Can't Download?
Please search mirrors if you can't find download links for "War And Peace: Book 12 - CHAPTER XV" in "Description" and someone else may update the links. Check the comments when back to find any updates.

Search Mirrors
Maybe some mirror pages will be helpful, search this book at top of this page or click here to find more info.

1. Ebooks list page : 84
2. War And Peace: Book 4 - CHAPTER V
3. War And Peace: Book 2 - CHAPTER III
4. War And Peace: Book 2 - CHAPTER II
5. War And Peace: Book 2 - CHAPTER I
6. War And Peace: Book 2 - CHAPTER IV
7. War And Peace: Book 3 - CHAPTER XIX
8. War And Peace: Book 3 - CHAPTER XVI
9. War And Peace: Book 3 - CHAPTER XV
10. War And Peace: Book 3 - CHAPTER XIV
11. War And Peace: Book 2 - CHAPTER V
12. War And Peace: Book 2 - CHAPTER VI
13. War And Peace: Book 2 - CHAPTER XIX
14. War And Peace: Book 2 - CHAPTER XVI
15. War And Peace: Book 2 - CHAPTER XIV
16. War And Peace: Book 2 - CHAPTER XV