And what would Sonya have done without the happy knowledge that in those early days she hadn’t taken her clothes off for three nights running so she could be on hand to carry out the doctor’s orders down to the last detail, and now she couldn’t sleep for fear of missing the right time to administer a few none-too-noxious pills from the little golden box? Even Natasha herself, despite many a protestation that medicine wouldn’t do her any good and it was all nonsense, was delighted to see so many sacrifices being made for her, and to be forced to take medicine at certain times, and no less delighted to demonstrate by ignoring the doctor’s instructions that she didn’t believe in medicine and set little store by her own life.
The doctor rolled up every day, came and took her pulse, looked at her tongue, ignored her distraught face and made little jokes. But afterwards, when he had gone out into the next room followed hastily by the countess, he would assume a grave expression and inform her with a thoughtful shake of his head that her daughter was not yet out of the wood, though this latest medicine ought to do the trick, and all they could do was wait and see, the illness being more in the mind than the body, and yet . . .
The countess would slip him a piece of gold, trying to hide the deed from herself and from him, and she always went back to the poorly patient with more hope in her heart.
The symptoms of Natasha’s illness were loss of appetite, sleeplessness, a cough and continual depression. The doctors had insisted she must never be far from medical attention, so they kept her there in the stifling atmosphere of the city. The whole summer of 1812 passed without the Rostovs going down to the country.
Despite the huge number of pills, drops and powders Natasha swallowed from enough little jars and boxes for Madame Schoss to build up a nice little collection (she had a passion for such things), despite Natasha’s being deprived of her normal country life, youth prevailed, her affliction gradually became overlaid with the business of everyday life and an agonizing pain was lifted from her heart, receding into the past and giving her physical health a chance to improve.
CHAPTER 17
Natasha was calmer, but not happier. Not only did she avoid all outward forms of amusement such as balls, skating, concerts and the theatre, but she never even laughed without a suggestion of tears behind the laughter. She was incapable of singing. Whenever she began to laugh or tried to sing all alone, she was choked with tears: tears of remorse, tears of regret for a lost time of pure happiness, tears of annoyance at herself for so wantonly destroying her young life that might have turned out to be so happy. It was particularly laughter and singing that seemed like a profanation of her sorrow. Flirtation was far from her mind; here there was no temptation to resist. She said at the time that all men were no more to her than Nastasya Ivanovna, the buffoon, and she meant it. Some kind of inner sentinel seemed to guard against all pleasure. And indeed she appeared to have lost all her old girlish interests, which now belonged to a carefree former life once full of hope. Her bitterest and most recurrent memory took her back to those autumn months – the hunting, ‘Uncle’, the Christmas holidays spent with Nikolay at Otradnoye. She would have given anything to bring back a single day of that time! But it was all gone for ever. Her misgivings at the time had not been wrong; a time of freedom like that with such capacity for every kind of enjoyment would never come again. And yet life had to go on.
