War And Peace полностью

Tears of annoyance were stinging Princess Marya’s eyes. She turned away and was just about to ask the countess again which way to go when she heard a noise at the door, the light, eager footsteps of someone who seemed to be tripping along quite cheerfully. She looked across and saw someone almost running into the room. It was Natasha, the same Natasha she had so heartily disliked when they had met such a long time ago in Moscow.

But Princess Marya took one look at Natasha’s face and immediately recognized a comrade in adversity, and therefore a friend. She flew across, took her in her arms and burst into tears on her shoulder.

The moment Natasha, sitting at Prince Andrey’s bedside, had heard of her arrival, she had tiptoed out of the room and run up to see Princess Marya. It was her tripping footsteps that had sounded so cheerful.

As she ran in, there was only one expression on her worried face, an expression of love, infinite love for him, for her, for anything the man she loved held dear, an expression of pity, compassion for others, and a deep desire to give herself up entirely to helping them. At that moment there was clearly not the slightest thought of self, of her relationship with him, in Natasha’s heart.

With her refined sensitivity Princess Marya took this in with a single glance at Natasha’s face, and wept with sweet sorrow on her shoulder.

‘Come on, Marie, let’s go and see him,’ said Natasha, drawing her away into the next room.

Princess Marya looked up, wiped her eyes and turned to Natasha. She felt sure she would get to know everything from her and find out what was going on.

‘What is . . .’ she began to ask, only to stop short. She felt that no question and no answer could be put into words. Natasha’s face and eyes would be sure to give her the clearest and deepest version of the truth.

Natasha glanced at her with a scared and doubtful look, wondering whether or not to tell all she knew. She seemed to sense that with those luminous eyes piercing her to the bottom of her heart, it was impossible not to tell the whole, whole truth as she saw it. Natasha’s lip suddenly trembled, ugly creases came at the corners of her mouth, and she broke down in sobs, burying her face in her hands.

Princess Marya now knew.

But she went on hoping, and managed a few words, though she had little faith in them.

‘But how is his wound? What sort of state is he in?’

‘You . . . you’ll see for yourself,’ was all Natasha could say.

They sat for a while downstairs outside his room, to bring their tears under control and go in with calm faces.

‘How has his illness progressed? When did it worsen? When did that happen?’ Princess Marya asked.

Natasha told her that at first he had been in danger from a high temperature and a great deal of pain, but that that had passed away at Troitsa, and the doctor had only been worried about one possibility – gangrene. But even the risk of that had gone. When they had got to Yaroslavl the wound had begun to fester (by now Natasha knew all about festering wounds, and much more besides), and the doctor had said the festering might take its normal course. Fever had set in. The doctor had said that the fever itself wasn’t too serious. ‘But two days ago,’ Natasha began, ‘all of a sudden this thing came over him . . .’ She struggled with her sobs. ‘I don’t know why, but you’ll see what he’s like.’ ‘Is he weaker? Has he lost weight? . . .’ asked the princess.

‘No, he hasn’t. It’s worse than that. You’ll see. Oh, Marie, he’s too good . . . he can’t, he can’t possibly live, because . . .’

CHAPTER 15

When Natasha opened the door with a practised hand for Princess Marya to go in first, the princess could feel the sobs rising in her throat. There was no way of preparing for the encounter or composing herself; she knew she wouldn’t be able to see him without tears.

She understood what Natasha had meant when she had said, ‘This thing came over him two days ago.’ She took it to mean that a sudden relaxation had come over him, and this process of relaxing and mellowing was a harbinger of death. As she approached the door her imagination conjured up a picture of Andrey as a little boy, when his face had been so soft and sweet and full of feeling. On the rare occasions she had seen that look in later life it had always affected her deeply. She knew he would say some soft, loving words to her just as her father had done on his deathbed, and it would be unbearable, and she would break down in sobs when she heard them. But sooner or later it had to be, and she went into the room. Her sobs seemed to rise higher and higher in her throat as her short-sighted eyes began to make out his figure and his features more and more clearly, and now at last she saw his face, and their eyes met.