'I fell in love with you the moment I first saw you. May I hope?' He glanced up at her and was struck by the solemn look on her passionate face, a face that seemed to say, 'Why do you ask? What's the point in feeling doubtful when you can't possibly know? What's the point in talking when words can't express your feelings?'
She came a little nearer, and stopped. He took her hand and kissed it.
'Do you love me?'
'Yes, yes,' said Natasha, with something near to impatience. She gave a deep sigh, then another, then the sighs came faster and faster until she burst into sobs.
'What is it? Is there anything wrong?'
'Oh, I am so happy,' she answered, smiling through her tears. She leant closer, thought for a second, as though wondering whether all this was really happening, and then kissed him.
Prince Andrey held her hand and gazed into her eyes, though in his heart he felt no trace of his former love for her. A change had come over his inner being. Gone was the former desire with all its poetry and mysterious charm. Now all he felt was pity for her feminine and childish frailty, dismay at her devotion and willingness to trust, and the hard, sweet taste of duty that must bind him to her for ever. This new feeling may have been less glorious and poetical, but it was stronger and more serious than before.
'Did your mamma tell you it cannot happen for a year?' said Prince Andrey, still gazing into her eyes.
'Is this really me, the "slip of a girl" that everyone used to call me?' Natasha was thinking. 'Am I really a wife from now on, the equal of this nice, clever man that I hardly know, someone that even my father looks up to? Is it really true? Is it really true that now I can't go on treating life like a joke, that now I'm a grown-up woman, now I'm fully responsible for every word and every action? . . . What did he ask me?'
'No,' she answered, without having understood his question.
'Please forgive me,' said Prince Andrey, 'but you're so young, and I've had so much experience. I'm afraid for you. You don't know yourself yet.'
Natasha concentrated hard on what he was saying, but she couldn't get the meaning of his words.
'Hard as that year will be for me, delaying my happiness,' continued Prince Andrey, 'you will use that time to make sure you know your own mind. I am asking you to make me a happy man in a year's time, but you are free - we shall keep our engagement secret - and if you were to find out you don't really love me, or if you fell in love with . . .' said Prince Andrey with a forced smile.
'Why are you saying all this?' Natasha interrupted. 'You know I've loved you since the day you first came to Otradnoye,' she said, certain she was telling the truth.
'In a year you'll learn all about yourself . . .'
'A who-ole year!' Natasha burst out, realizing for the first time that the wedding was to be delayed for a year. 'But why wait a year? . . . Why wait a year?'
Prince Andrey began to explain the reasons for the delay. Natasha wasn't listening.
'Is there no other way?' she asked. Prince Andrey said nothing in reply, but the impossibility of changing this decision was written on his face.
'Oh, that's awful! It's absolutely awful!' Natasha cried suddenly, breaking into sobs again. 'I'll die if I have to wait a year. It's impossible. It's awful.' She glanced at the face of her husband-to-be and saw his look of bewilderment and deep sympathy.
'No, it's all right, I'll do anything,' she said, suddenly in control of her tears, 'I'm so happy!'
Her father and mother came in and gave the engaged couple their blessing. From that day on Prince Andrey visited the Rostovs as Natasha's fiance.
CHAPTER 24
There were no betrothal celebrations, and no announcement was made of Natasha's engagement to Bolkonsky; Prince Andrey insisted on that. He said that since he was responsible for postponing the wedding he ought to bear the whole burden of it. He said that although he was bound for ever by his word he did not want to bind Natasha, and he wanted her to feel completely free. If in six months' time she felt she didn't love him, she would have a perfect right to refuse him. Naturally enough, neither Natasha nor her parents would hear a word of this, but Prince Andrey was adamant. He came to their house every day, but he didn't behave like a fiance; he addressed her formally and kissed her only on the hand. Since the day of his proposal the relationship between Prince Andrey and Natasha had changed completely into a new kind of uncomplicated closeness. It was as if they had not known each other before. Both of them loved to recall how they had treated one another when there was nothing between them. Now they both felt like utterly different creatures, no longer awkward and affected, but simple and sincere. At first Prince Andrey had been the cause of some embarrassment within the family. He had seemed like a man from another world, and Natasha worked hard at bringing them all round to him, declaring with no little pride that his unusual manner was all show, he was just like everybody else deep down - she wasn't scared of him and nobody else need be. It took only a few days for the rest of the family to get used to seeing him; any awkwardness soon disappeared and they went back to their old way of living, with him now accommodated to it. He could talk to the count about estate management, to the countess and Natasha about clothes, and to Sonya about albums and embroidery. There were times when the Rostovs, both privately and in front of Prince Andrey, expressed amazement at the way things had turned out, and how clear the omens had all been: Prince Andrey's coming to Otradnoye and their coming to Petersburg; the resemblance between Natasha and Prince Andrey that the old nurse had spotted during his first visit; the encounter between Andrey and Nikolay in 1805; and many other auguries, noted by various family-members, foreshadowing what was to come.
The house now had a special poetic atmosphere, the unchanging stillness that always goes with the presence of an engaged couple. They often sat together in a group without anyone talking. And if some of them got up and walked away, leaving them alone together, sometimes the engaged couple still sat there in silence. It wasn't often that they spoke of their future life together. Prince Andrey was too scared and embarrassed to talk about it. Natasha shared this feeling, as she shared all his feelings, being very good at guessing them. On one occasion Natasha began asking questions about his son.
Prince Andrey coloured up, as he often did at that time, which greatly endeared him to Natasha, and said that his son wasn't going to live with them.
'Why not?' said Natasha, somewhat taken aback.
'Oh, I can't take him away from his grandfather, and anyway . . .'
'Oh, I would have loved him so much!' said Natasha, quickly catching on to his line of thought, 'but I can see you don't want either of us to be blamed for anything.'
The old count sometimes came to Prince Andrey, kissed him and asked his advice about Petya's education or Nikolay's career. The old countess sighed as she watched them. Sonya was afraid at every end and turn of being de trop, and was always trying to find excuses for leaving them alone, even when it wasn't necessary. When Prince Andrey got going on a story - he was a splendid raconteur - Natasha listened to him with pride. When she was talking she noted with a mixture of joy and dread that he was watching her with close attention and a searching stare. She kept asking herself in some bewilderment, 'What does he see in me? What does he want when he stares like that? What if I haven't got what he's looking for?' Sometimes she slipped into one of her moods of happy abandon, and then she really loved to watch and hear Prince Andrey laughing at her. He seldom laughed, but when he did he did so with complete abandon, and she always felt closer to him when he had been laughing like that. Natasha's happiness would have been complete but for the dreadful thought of their impending separation, which was looming ever closer.
On the eve of his departure from Petersburg Prince Andrey brought Pierre along too; he hadn't been to the Rostovs' since the day of the ball. Pierre seemed absent-minded and embarrassed. He spent much of the time talking to the countess. Natasha sat down at a little chess table with Sonya, and invited Prince Andrey to join the
m. He came over.
'You've known Bezukhov quite some time, haven't you?' he asked. 'Do you like him?'
'Yes, he's very nice, but very odd.'
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.
Oh, my dear, religion, and religion alone can, if not comfort us, at least save us from despair. Only religion can make clear to us what man cannot comprehend without its aid: why and for what purpose good and noble beings capable of happiness, doing no harm to others, indeed essential for the happiness of other people, are called away to God, while wicked, useless and dangerous people are left among the living, a burden to themselves and everyone else. The first death I ever saw, which I shall never forget - the death of my dear little sister-in-law - left me with the same impression. You wonder why your noble brother was fated to die; like you I wondered why Liza had to die - an angel who had never done the slightest harm to anyone, and never had anything but kind thoughts in her heart. But do you know what, my dear friend? Five years have gone by, and even I, with my inferior intellect, am just beginning to understand clearly why it was necessary for her to die, and how that death was but an expression of the infinite goodness of the Creator, whose every action, though for the most part passing all understanding, is but a manifestation of His infinite love for His creation. Perhaps, I often think, she was too angelic, too innocent to have enough strength to perform all the duties of a mother. As a young wife, she was beyond reproach; perhaps she could not have been so in motherhood. As things stand, beyond all the pure memories and regrets she has left us, and particularly Prince Andrey, in the other world she will in all probability attain a place which I myself dare not hope for. But over and above her loss, that early and terrible death has actually come as a powerful blessing for me and my brother, in spite of all our grief. When it happened, at the moment of our loss, I could never have entertained thoughts like these; at that time I should have been horrified and dismissed them, but now it all seems so clear and certain. I write all this to you, my dear friend, simply to persuade you of a Gospel truth which has become a rule of living for me: not a hair of our head shall fall without His will. And His will is governed only by His infinite love for us, and so it is that whatever comes to pass, all is for our good.
You ask whether we shall spend next winter in Moscow. For all my desire to see you, I don't expect we shall, and I don't want to do so. And you may be surprised to hear that the reason for this is - Buonaparte. Let me explain: my father's health is noticeably declining; he cannot stand being contradicted and he's always so irritable. This irritability is, as you know, mostly directed towards politics. He cannot stand the idea of Buonaparte hobnobbing on equal terms with all the sovereigns of Europe, especially our own, the grandson of the great Catherine! As you know, I haven't the slightest interest in politics, but from my father and his conversations with Mikhail Ivanovich, I do get to know what is going on in the world, and in particular I keep hearing about all the honours bestowed on Buonaparte. Bald Hills seems to be the only place on the globe where he is not recognized as a great man, let alone Emperor of France. This is what my father cannot put up with. He seems very reluctant to talk about going to Moscow, and I have the feeling this is mainly due to his political views and the likelihood of him rubbing people up the wrong way, what with his general attitude and his habit of speaking his mind and not making any allowances for anybody. Whatever he gained from medical treatment in Moscow he would lose from arguing about Buonaparte, which would be inevitable. Anyway, it will all be settled soon.
Family life goes on in the same old way, except for my brother Andrey being away. As I wrote to you before, he has changed a lot recently. It is only now, this year, that he seems to have got over his grief at long last. He is just as I remember him when he was a boy, nice and kind, and more good-hearted than anyon
e I know. He seems to realize that his life is not over yet. But, despite the improvement in his morale, he has become very weak physically. He has kept on losing weight and he's more edgy than he used to be. I worry about him, and I'm so glad he is taking this foreign tour, which the doctors have been prescribing for ages. I hope he'll come back cured. You write to me that all Petersburg considers him one of the most capable, cultivated and intelligent young men. Forgive my family pride - this is something I have never doubted. The good that he has done here - to his peasants, the local nobility, everyone - is incalculable. When he arrived in Petersburg he simply got what he deserved. I'm amazed at the way rumours find their way from Petersburg to Moscow, especially groundless ones like the story you mentioned about my brother supposedly marrying the little Rostov girl. I don't think Andrey will ever marry anyone, and certainly not her. I'll tell you why. Firstly, I know that though he seldom speaks of his late wife, his sadness at her loss has penetrated his heart too deeply for him ever to consider arranging for a successor, and a stepmother for our little angel. And secondly, because, as far as I can tell, that girl is not the sort of woman who would appeal to Prince Andrey. I don't think Andrey can have chosen her to be his wife, and I must admit that I hope not.
But I've rambled on too long. Here I am finishing the second sheet.
Goodbye for now, my dear friend. God Almighty take you to His holy bosom. My dear companion, Mademoiselle Bourienne, sends her love.
MARIE
CHAPTER 26
In the middle of the summer Princess Marya was surprised to receive a letter from Prince Andrey in Switzerland with some strange and unexpected news. He informed his sister of his engagement to Natasha Rostov. His whole letter was suffused with ecstatic love for his fiancee, as well as tender and confiding affection for his sister. He wrote that he had never been in love like this before, and now at last he had a clear idea of what life meant. He asked her to forgive him for having kept quiet about his plans during his last visit to Bald Hills, though he had mentioned them to his father. He had said nothing because he knew she might go and persuade her father to give his consent, only to fail in the attempt, irritate her father and bring down on herself all the weight of his displeasure. 'Besides,' he wrote, 'things were not definitely settled then, and now they are. At that time our father insisted on a year's postponement, and now half of it, six months, have passed, and I remain firmer than ever in my resolution. If it weren't for the doctors insisting I stay here and take the waters I should be back in Russia by now, but, as things stand, I must delay my return for another three months. You know me, and how things are with Father. I don't need anything from him. I've always been independent, and I always shall be, but to go against his will, to incur his anger when perhaps he won't be with us much longer, would cut my happiness in half. I am writing to him now. Please choose the right moment, give him my letter, and let me know how he feels. Is there any hope of his agreeing to shorten the period by three months?'