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What
would Sonya and the count and countess have done, how would they
have
looked, if nothing had been done, if there had not been those
pills
to
give by the clock, the warm drinks, the chicken cutlets, and all
the
other
details of life ordered by the doctors, the carrying out of which
supplied
an occupation and consolation to the family circle? How would
the
count have borne his dearly loved daughter's illness had he not
known
that it was costing him a thousand rubles, and that he would not
grudge
thousands more to benefit her, or had he not known that if her
illness
continued he would not grudge yet other thousands and would take
her
abroad for consultations there, and had he not been able to
explain
the
details of how Metivier and Feller had not understood the
symptoms,
but
Frise had, and Mudrov had diagnosed them even better? What would
the
countess
have done had she not been able sometimes to scold the invalid
for
not strictly obeying the doctor's orders?
"You'll
never get well like that," she would say, forgetting her grief
in
her vexation, "if you won't obey the doctor and take your medicine
at
the
right time! You mustn't trifle with it, you know, or it may turn
to
pneumonia,"
she would go on, deriving much comfort from the utterance of
that
foreign word, incomprehensible to others as well as to herself.
What
would Sonya have done without the glad consciousness that she had
not
undressed during the first three nights, in order to be ready to
carry
out all the doctor's injunctions with precision, and that she
still
kept awake at night so as not to miss the proper time when the
slightly
harmful pills in the little gilt box had to be administered?
Even
to Natasha herself it was pleasant to see that so many sacrifices
were
being made for her sake, and to know that she had to take
medicine
at
certain hours, though she declared that no medicine would cure
her
and
that it was all nonsense. And it was even pleasant to be able to
show,
by disregarding the orders, that she did not believe in medical
treatment
and did not value her life.
The
doctor came every day, felt her pulse, looked at her tongue, and
regardless
of her grief-stricken face joked with her. But when he had
gone
into another room, to which the countess hurriedly followed him,
he
assumed
a grave air and thoughtfully shaking his head said that though
there
was danger, he had hopes of the effect of this last medicine and
one
must wait and see, that the malady was chiefly mental, but... And
the
countess, trying to conceal the action from herself and from him,
slipped
a gold coin into his hand and always returned to the patient
with
a more tranquil mind.
The
symptoms of Natasha's illness were that she ate little, slept
little,
coughed, and was always low-spirited. The doctors said that she
could
not get on without medical treatment, so they kept her in the
stifling
atmosphere of the town, and the Rostovs did not move to the
country
that summer of 1812.
In
spite of the many pills she swallowed and the drops and powders
out
of
the little bottles and boxes of which Madame Schoss who was fond
of
such
things made a large collection, and in spite of being deprived of
the
country life to which she was accustomed, youth prevailed.
Natasha's
grief
began to be overlaid by the impressions of daily life, it ceased
to
press so painfully on her heart, it gradually faded into the
past,
and
she began to recover physically.
CHAPTER
XVII
Natasha
was calmer but no happier. She not merely avoided all external
forms
of pleasure--balls, promenades, concerts, and theaters--but she
never
laughed without a sound of tears in her laughter. She could not
sing.
As soon as she began to laugh, or tried to sing by herself, tears
choked
her: tears of remorse, tears at the recollection of those pure
times
which could never return, tears of vexation that she should so
uselessly
have ruined her young life which might have been so happy.
Laughter
and singing in particular seemed to her like a blasphemy, in
face
of her sorrow. Without any need of self-restraint, no wish to
coquet
ever entered her head. She said and felt at that time that no man
was
more to her than Nastasya Ivanovna, the buffoon. Something stood
sentinel
within her and forbade her every joy. Besides, she had lost all
the
old interests of her carefree girlish life that had been so full
of
hope.
The previous autumn, the hunting, "Uncle," and the Christmas
holidays
spent with Nicholas at Otradnoe were what she recalled oftenest
and
most painfully. What would she not have given to bring back even
a
single
day of that time! But it was gone forever. Her presentiment at
the
time had not deceived her--that that state of freedom and
readiness
for
any enjoyment would not return again. Yet it was necessary to
live
on.
It
comforted her to reflect that she was not better as she had
formerly
imagined,
but worse, much worse, than anybody else in the world. But
this
was not enough. She knew that, and asked herself, "What next?"
But
there
was nothing to come. There was no joy in life, yet life was
passing.
Natasha apparently tried not to be a burden or a hindrance to
anyone,
but wanted nothing for herself. She kept away from everyone in
the
house and felt at ease only with her brother Petya. She liked to
be
with
him better than with the others, and when alone with him she
sometimes
laughed. She hardly ever left the house and of those who came
to
see them was glad to see only one person, Pierre. It would have
been
impossible
to treat her with more delicacy, greater care, and at the
same
time more seriously than did Count Bezukhov. Natasha
unconsciously
felt
this delicacy and so found great pleasure in his society. But she
was
not even grateful to him for it; nothing good on Pierre's part
seemed
to her to be an effort, it seemed so natural for him to be kind
to
everyone that there was no merit in his kindness. Sometimes
Natasha
noticed
embarrassment and awkwardness on his part in her presence,
especially
when he wanted to do something to please her, or feared that
something
they spoke of would awaken memories distressing to her. She
noticed
this and attributed it to his general kindness and shyness,
which
she imagined must be the same toward everyone as it was to her.
After
those involuntary words--that if he were free he would have asked
on
his knees for her hand and her love--uttered at a moment when she
was
so
strongly agitated, Pierre never spoke to Natasha of his feelings;
and
it
seemed plain to her that those words, which had then so comforted
her,
were spoken as all sorts of meaningless words are spoken to
comfort
a
crying child. It was not because Pierre was a married man, but
because
Natasha
felt very strongly with him that moral barrier the absence of
which
she had experienced with Kuragin that it never entered her head
that
the relations between him and herself could lead to love on her
part,
still less on his, or even to the kind of tender, self-conscious,
romantic
friendship between a man and a woman of which she had known
several
instances.
Before
the end of the fast of St. Peter, Agrafena Ivanovna Belova, a
country
neighbor of the Rostovs, came to Moscow to pay her devotions at
the
shrines of the Moscow saints. She suggested that Natasha should
fast
and
prepare for Holy Communion, and Natasha gladly welcomed the idea.
Despite
the doctor's orders that she should not go out early in the
morning,
Natasha insisted on fasting and preparing for the sacrament,
not
as they generally prepared for it in the Rostov family by
attending
three
services in their own house, but as Agrafena Ivanovna did, by
going
to church every day for a week and not once missing Vespers,
Matins,
or Mass.
The
countess was pleased with Natasha's zeal; after the poor results
of
the
medical treatment, in the depths of her heart she hoped that
prayer
might
help her daughter more than medicines and, though not without
fear
and
concealing it from the doctor, she agreed to Natasha's wish and
entrusted
her to Belova. Agrafena Ivanovna used to come to wake Natasha
at
three in the morning, but generally found her already awake. She
was
afraid
of being late for Matins. Hastily washing, and meekly putting on
her
shabbiest dress and an old mantilla, Natasha, shivering in the
fresh
air,
went out into the deserted streets lit by the clear light of
dawn.
By
Agrafena Ivanovna's advice Natasha prepared herself not in their
own
parish,
but at a church where, according to the devout Agrafena
Ivanovna,
the priest was a man of very severe and lofty life. There were
never
many people in the church; Natasha always stood beside Belova in
the
customary place before an icon of the Blessed Virgin, let into
the
screen
before the choir on the left side, and a feeling, new to her, of
humility
before something great and incomprehensible, seized her when at
that
unusual morning hour, gazing at the dark face of the Virgin
illuminated
by the candles burning before it and by the morning light
falling
from the window, she listened to the words of the service which
she
tried to follow with understanding. When she understood them her
personal
feeling became interwoven in the prayers with shades of its
own.
When she did not understand, it was sweeter still to think that
the
wish
to understand everything is pride, that it is impossible to
understand
all, that it is only necessary to believe and to commit
oneself
to God, whom she felt guiding her soul at those moments. She
crossed
herself, bowed low, and when she did not understand, in horror
at
her own vileness, simply asked God to forgive her everything,
everything,
to have mercy upon her. The prayers to which she surrendered
herself
most of all were those of repentance. On her way home at an
early
hour when she met no one but bricklayers going to work or men
sweeping
the street, and everybody within the houses was still asleep,
Natasha
experienced a feeling new to her, a sense of the possibility of
correcting
her faults, the possibility of a new, clean life, and of
happiness.
During
the whole week she spent in this way, that feeling grew every
day.
And the happiness of taking communion, or "communing" as Agrafena
Ivanovna,
joyously playing with the word, called it, seemed to Natasha
so
great that she felt she should never live till that blessed
Sunday.
But
the happy day came, and on that memorable Sunday, when, dressed
in
white
muslin, she returned home after communion, for the first time for
many
months she felt calm and not oppressed by the thought of the life
that
lay before her.
The
doctor who came to see her that day ordered her to continue the
powders
he had prescribed a fortnight previously.
"She
must certainly go on taking them morning and evening," said he,
evidently
sincerely satisfied with his success. "Only, please be
particular
about it.
"Be
quite easy," he continued playfully, as he adroitly took the gold
coin
in his palm. "She will soon be singing and frolicking about. The
last
medicine has done her a very great deal of good. She has
freshened
up
very much."
The
countess, with a cheerful expression on her face, looked down at
her
nails
and spat a little for luck as she returned to the drawing room.
CHAPTER
XVIII
At
the beginning of July more and more disquieting reports about the
war
began
to spread in Moscow; people spoke of an appeal by the Emperor to
the
people, and of his coming himself from the army to Moscow. And as
up
to
the eleventh of July no manifesto or appeal had been received,
exaggerated
reports became current about them and about the position of
Russia.
It was said that the Emperor was leaving the army because it was
in
danger, it was said that Smolensk had surrendered, that Napoleon
had
an
army of a million and only a miracle could save Russia.
On
the eleventh of July, which was
Sat
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