And she began doing what everyone always did when speaking of Pierre, telling stories about his absent-mindedness, stories that were largely fictional.
‘I’ve told him our secret, you know,’ said Prince Andrey. ‘We’ve known each other since we were boys. He has a heart of gold. Please, Natalie,’ he said, suddenly turning serious. ‘I’m going away. Anything could happen. You might fall out of . . . Oh, I know I ought not to talk like that. But listen – if anything happens to you while I’m away . . .’
‘What could happen?’
‘If you get into any kind of trouble . . .’ Prince Andrey persisted. ‘Please, Mademoiselle Sophie, if anything happens, anything at all, go to him and nobody else for advice and help. I know he’s terribly absent-minded and odd, but his heart’s in the right place.’
None of them, father, mother, Sonya, not even Prince Andrey, could have foreseen the effect the separation would have on Natasha. She wandered the house all day long, red in the face, dry-eyed but wildly excited, fussing over little details as if she had no concept of what was about to descend on her. She didn’t weep even when he kissed her hand for the last time and took his leave.
‘Please don’t go!’ was all she could manage, in a voice that made him wonder whether he ought not to stay after all, a voice he would long remember. When he had gone she still didn’t weep; she just sat in her room for days on end without crying, totally apathetic, saying nothing more than the occasional, ‘Oh, why did he go?’
But then, two weeks after his departure, she amazed everyone around by just as suddenly recovering from her low morale and becoming her old self again, but with a change in her moral physiognomy much like the new look on a child’s face at the end of a long illness.
CHAPTER 25
Over the last year, following his son’s departure, old Prince Nikolay Bolkonsky’s health and temper had got worse. He was now more irritable than ever, and it was generally Princess Marya who had to take the full fury of his unreasonable tantrums. He seemed determined to seek out all her vulnerable points and make her suffer the cruellest possible mental torment. Princess Marya had two passions and therefore two sources of pleasure: her nephew, little Nikolay, and religion, and both of these were favourite targets for the old prince’s attacks and taunts. Whatever the topic of conversation, he would bring the subject round to superstitious old maids or children who were pampered and spoilt. ‘You want to turn him’ (Nikolay) ‘into another old maid like yourself. You won’t get away with it. Prince Andrey wants a son, not an old maid,’ he would say. Or he would turn to Mademoiselle Bourienne when Princess Marya was with them and ask whether she liked our village priests and holy icons, subjects he always found so amusing.
He never stopped peppering Princess Marya with wounding remarks, but his daughter forgave him always and effortlessly. How could he be at fault, her own father, who (as she knew full well) loved her in spite of everything? How could he be considered unjust? What is justice anyway? Princess Marya never gave a thought to such a grand word as ‘justice’. All the complex laws of humanity came together for her in one clear and simple law – the law of love and self-sacrifice, laid down by Him who suffered in His love for all humanity, though He was Himself truly God. Other people’s justice or injustice – was that any concern of hers? Hers was to suffer and to love, and that she did.
That winter Prince Andrey had come back to Bald Hills full of high spirits, gentle and affectionate, the kind of brother Princess Marya had not known for many years. She had strongly suspected that something must have happened to him, but he had said nothing to his sister about falling in love. Before leaving, Prince Andrey had had a long conversation with his father, and Princess Marya noticed that they were unhappy with each other when the time came to part.
Soon after Prince Andrey had gone, Princess Marya wrote a letter from Bald Hills to her friend in Petersburg, Julie Karagin. (Princess Marya still dreamt – as girls do – of seeing Julie married to her brother.) She was currently mourning the loss of a brother killed in Turkey.6
Sorrow seems to be our common lot, my dear, lovely friend Julie.
Your loss is so awful that I can explain it to myself only as a special act of providence by God, who, in all His love for you, wishes to put you and your most excellent mother to the test.
