‘My vocation is different,’ Princess Marya was telling herself. ‘My happiness will be in other people’s happiness, the happiness of love and self-sacrifice. Whatever it costs I must make poor Amélie happy. She is so passionately in love with him. She is so passionately penitent. I shall do all I can to arrange for them to be married. If he’s not rich I shall give her some money. I shall ask Father, I shall ask Andrey. I’ll be so happy when she is his wife. She is so unhappy now, a stranger, all alone and helpless! Oh Lord, how passionately she must love him to be able to forget herself like that. Who knows, I might have done the same thing! . . .’ thought Princess Marya.
CHAPTER 6
It had been some time since the Rostovs had had any news of their little Nikolay. It was mid-winter before one day a letter was handed to Count Rostov with what he recognized as his son’s handwriting on the envelope. Letter in hand and dreading the worst, the count tiptoed rapidly off to his room, trying not to be noticed, shut himself in and began to read. Anna Mikhaylovna soon found out about the letter (nothing escaped her in that house) and stole silently in to see the count. She caught him still holding the letter, and simultaneously sobbing and laughing. She still lived with the Rostovs despite the upturn in her fortune.
‘My dear friend?’ Anna Mikhaylovna inquired gravely, ready to offer any kind of sympathy. This made the count sob more violently. ‘Little Nikolay . . . the letter . . . wounded . . . he would . . . he was . . . my dear friend . . . my darling boy . . . wounded . . . my little countess . . . commissioned . . . how can I tell my little countess?’
Anna Mikhaylovna sat down beside him, used her own handkerchief to wipe his eyes and then the tear-stained letter, dried her own tears, read the letter through, reassured the count and decided she would spend the afternoon preparing the countess, and after tea, with God’s help, she would tell her everything. Over dinner Anna Mikhaylovna talked about the rumours from the war front and dear little Nikolay. Twice she asked when they had last heard from him, though she knew perfectly well, and then she thought they might well get a letter from him soon, perhaps this very day. Whenever these hints looked as if they were disturbing the countess and she began to direct worried looks first at the count and then Anna Mikhaylovna, Anna adroitly turned the conversation to something trivial. Natasha, who was more sensitive to subtleties of intonation, meaningful glances and facial expressions than anyone else in the family, immediately pricked up her ears and sensed something between her father and Anna Mikhaylovna, something to do with her brother, and she knew that Anna Mikhaylovna was preparing the ground. For all her boldness Natasha knew how touchy her mother was over anything to do with their dear Nikolay, so she decided it was best not to ask any questions over dinner. Not that she could eat anything – she was too excited to eat – she just kept wriggling on her chair, ignoring the protests of her governess. Once dinner was over she hurtled after Anna Mikhaylovna, raced across the sitting-room and flung herself on her neck.
‘Auntie, darling, do tell me what’s happening!’
‘Nothing, my dear.’
‘Oh no, you darling, sweet, lovely angel, I won’t stop. I know you know something.’
Anna Mikhaylovna shook her head. ‘You are a sharp little thing!’ she said.
‘Is it a letter from dear Nikolay? It is!’ cried Natasha, reading an affirmative signal on Anna Mikhaylovna’s face.
‘Shh, for heaven’s sake be careful. You know it could be a real shock for your mother.’
‘I will, I will, but tell me about it. You won’t? All right, I’ll go and tell her now.’
Anna Mikhaylovna told Natasha roughly what was in the letter, on condition that she wouldn’t tell anyone.
‘On my honour,’ said Natasha, crossing herself, ‘I won’t tell anyone,’ and she rushed off to tell Sonya. She broke the news with triumphant delight: ‘It’s Nikolay . . . wounded . . . a letter . . .’
‘Nikolay!’ was all Sonya could manage, her face instantly drained of colour. Seeing Sonya so badly affected by the news that her brother had been wounded, Natasha suddenly became aware of the sad side of it all.
She rushed over to Sonya, hugged her and began to cry. ‘Lightly wounded, but commissioned as an officer and now he’s all right – he says so himself,’ she forced out through her tears.
‘Oh, I can see you women are all cry-babies,’ said Petya, marching boldly up and down the room. ‘Me, I’m just glad, very very glad that my brother has distinguished himself. All you can do is blubber about it! You don’t understand the first thing about it.’
Natasha smiled through her tears.
‘You didn’t read the letter, did you?’ asked Sonya.
‘No, but she said it’s all over and he’s an officer . . .’
‘Thank God for that,’ said Sonya, crossing herself. ‘But she might not have been telling the truth. Let’s go and see Mamma.’
