Chương Chương 278 · 第278章

When Natásha opened Prince Andrew’s door with a familiar movement and

let Princess Mary pass into the room before her, the princess felt the

sobs in her throat. Hard as she had tried to prepare herself, and now

tried to remain tranquil, she knew that she would be unable to look at

him without tears.

The princess understood what Natásha had meant by the words: “two days

ago this suddenly happened.” She understood those words to mean that he

had suddenly softened and that this softening and gentleness were signs

of approaching death. As she stepped to the door she already saw in

imagination Andrew’s face as she remembered it in childhood, a gentle,

mild, sympathetic face which he had rarely shown, and which therefore

affected her very strongly. She was sure he would speak soft, tender

words to her such as her father had uttered before his death, and

that she would not be able to bear it and would burst into sobs in his

presence. Yet sooner or later it had to be, and she went in. The sobs

rose higher and higher in her throat as she more and more clearly

distinguished his form and her shortsighted eyes tried to make out his

features, and then she saw his face and met his gaze.

He was lying in a squirrel-fur dressing gown on a divan, surrounded by

pillows. He was thin and pale. In one thin, translucently white hand

he held a handkerchief, while with the other he stroked the delicate

mustache he had grown, moving his fingers slowly. His eyes gazed at them

as they entered.

On seeing his face and meeting his eyes Princess Mary’s pace suddenly

slackened, she felt her tears dry up and her sobs ceased. She suddenly

felt guilty and grew timid on catching the expression of his face and

eyes.

“But in what am I to blame?” she asked herself. And his cold, stern look

replied: “Because you are alive and thinking of the living, while I...”

In the deep gaze that seemed to look not outwards but inwards there

was an almost hostile expression as he slowly regarded his sister and

Natásha.

He kissed his sister, holding her hand in his as was their wont.

“How are you, Mary? How did you manage to get here?” said he in a voice

as calm and aloof as his look.

Had he screamed in agony, that scream would not have struck such horror

into Princess Mary’s heart as the tone of his voice.

“And have you brought little Nicholas?” he asked in the same slow, quiet

manner and with an obvious effort to remember.

“How are you now?” said Princess Mary, herself surprised at what she was

saying.

“That, my dear, you must ask the doctor,” he replied, and again making

an evident effort to be affectionate, he said with his lips only (his

words clearly did not correspond to his thoughts):

“Merci, chère amie, d’être venue.” *

* “Thank you for coming, my dear.”

Princess Mary pressed his hand. The pressure made him wince just

perceptibly. He was silent, and she did not know what to say. She now

understood what had happened to him two days before. In his words, his

tone, and especially in that calm, almost antagonistic look could be

felt an estrangement from everything belonging to this world, terrible

in one who is alive. Evidently only with an effort did he understand

anything living; but it was obvious that he failed to understand, not

because he lacked the power to do so but because he understood something

else—something the living did not and could not understand—and which

wholly occupied his mind.

“There, you see how strangely fate has brought us together,” said he,

breaking the silence and pointing to Natásha. “She looks after me all

the time.”

Princess Mary heard him and did not understand how he could say such a

thing. He, the sensitive, tender Prince Andrew, how could he say that,

before her whom he loved and who loved him? Had he expected to live he

could not have said those words in that offensively cold tone. If he had

not known that he was dying, how could he have failed to pity her and

how could he speak like that in her presence? The only explanation was

that he was indifferent, because something else, much more important,

had been revealed to him.

The conversation was cold and disconnected and continually broke off.

“Mary came by way of Ryazán,” said Natásha.

Prince Andrew did not notice that she called his sister Mary, and only

after calling her so in his presence did Natásha notice it herself.

“Really?” he asked.

“They told her that all Moscow has been burned down, and that...”

Natásha stopped. It was impossible to talk. It was plain that he was

making an effort to listen, but could not do so.

“Yes, they say it’s burned,” he said. “It’s a great pity,” and he gazed

straight before him, absently stroking his mustache with his fingers.

“And so you have met Count Nicholas, Mary?” Prince Andrew suddenly said,

evidently wishing to speak pleasantly to them. “He wrote here that he

took a great liking to you,” he went on simply and calmly, evidently

unable to understand all the complex significance his words had for

living people. “If you liked him too, it would be a good thing for you

to get married,” he added rather more quickly, as if pleased at having

found words he had long been seeking.

Princess Mary heard his words but they had no meaning for her, except as

a proof of how far away he now was from everything living.

“Why talk of me?” she said quietly and glanced at Natásha.

Natásha, who felt her glance, did not look at her. All three were again

silent.

“Andrew, would you like...” Princess Mary suddenly said in a trembling

voice, “would you like to see little Nicholas? He is always talking

about you!”

Prince Andrew smiled just perceptibly and for the first time, but

Princess Mary, who knew his face so well, saw with horror that he did

not smile with pleasure or affection for his son, but with quiet, gentle

irony because he thought she was trying what she believed to be the last

means of arousing him.

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

When little Nicholas was brought into Prince Andrew’s room he looked at

his father with frightened eyes, but did not cry, because no one else

was crying. Prince Andrew kissed him and evidently did not know what to

say to him.

When Nicholas had been led away, Princess Mary again went up to her

brother, kissed him, and unable to restrain her tears any longer began

to cry.

He looked at her attentively.

“Is it about Nicholas?” he asked.

Princess Mary nodded her head, weeping.

“Mary, you know the Gosp...” but he broke off.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing. You mustn’t cry here,” he said, looking at her with the same

cold expression.

When Princess Mary began to cry, he understood that she was crying at

the thought that little Nicholas would be left without a father. With

a great effort he tried to return to life and to see things from their

point of view.

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

“The fowls of the air sow not, neither do they reap, yet your Father

feedeth them,” he said to himself and wished to say to Princess Mary;

“but no, they will take it their own way, they won’t understand! They

can’t understand that all those feelings they prize so—all our feelings,

all those ideas that seem so important to us, are unnecessary. We cannot

understand one another,” and he remained silent.

Prince Andrew’s little son was seven. He could scarcely read, and knew

nothing. After that day he lived through many things, gaining knowledge,

observation, and experience, but had he possessed all the faculties he

afterwards acquired, he could not have had a better or more profound

understanding of the meaning of the scene he had witnessed between

his father, Mary, and Natásha, than he had then. He understood it

completely, and, leaving the room without crying, went silently up

to Natásha who had come out with him and looked shyly at her with his

beautiful, thoughtful eyes, then his uplifted, rosy upper lip trembled

and leaning his head against her he began to cry.

After that he avoided Dessalles and the countess who caressed him and

either sat alone or came timidly to Princess Mary, or to Natásha of whom

he seemed even fonder than of his aunt, and clung to them quietly and

shyly.

When Princess Mary had left Prince Andrew she fully understood what

Natásha’s face had told her. She did not speak any more to Natásha of

hopes of saving his life. She took turns with her beside his sofa, and

did not cry any more, but prayed continually, turning in soul to that

Eternal and Unfathomable, whose presence above the dying man was now so

evident.