PRINCESS MARYA put off her departure. Sonya and the count tried to take Natasha's place, but they could not. They saw that she was the only one who could keep the mother from the frenzy of despair. For three weeks Natasha never left her mother's side, slept on a lounge in her room, made her drink and eat, and without pause talked to her, talked because her tender, loving voice was the only thing that soothed the countess.

The wound in the mother's heart could never be healed. Petya's death had torn away half of her life. When the news of Petya's death reached her, she was a fresh-looking, vigorous woman of fifty; a month later she came out of her room an old woman, half dead and with no more interest in life. But the wound that half killed the countess, that fresh wound, brought Natasha back to life.

A spiritual wound that comes from a rending of the spirit is like a physical wound, and after it has healed externally, and the torn edges are scarred over, yet, strange to say, like a deep physical injury, it only heals inwardly by the force of life pushing up from within.

So Natasha's wound healed. She believed that her life was over. But suddenly her love for her mother showed her that the essence of her life—love—was still alive within her. Love was awakened, and life waked with it.

The last days of Prince Andrey had been a close bond between Natasha and Princess Marya. This fresh trouble brought them even closer together. Princess Marya put off her departure, and for the last three weeks she had been looking after Natasha, as though she were a sick child. Those weeks spent by Natasha in her mother's room had completely broken down her health.

One day Princess Marya noticed that Natasha was shivering with a feverish chill, and brought her away to her own room, and tucked her up in bed in the middle of the day. Natasha lay down, but when Princess Marya, having let down the blinds, was about to leave the room, Natasha called her to her.

“I'm not sleepy, Marie; stay with me.”

“You are tired; try and go to sleep.”

“No, no. Why did you bring me away? She will ask for me.”

“She is much better. She was talking much more like herself to-day,” said Princess Marya.

Natasha lay on the bed, and in the half-dark room she tried to make out Princess Marya's face.

“Is she like him?” Natasha wondered. “Yes; like and unlike. But she is original, different, a quite new, unknown person. And she likes me. What is there in her heart? Everything good. But what is it like? What are her thoughts like? How does she look on me? Yes; she is nice!”

“Masha,” she said, shyly drawing her hand towards her. “Masha, you mustn't think I'm horrid. No? Masha, darling! How I love you! Let us be quite, quite friends.” And embracing her, Natasha fell to kissing her hands and face.

Princess Marya was abashed and overjoyed at this demonstration of feeling.

From that day there sprang up between Princess Marya and Natasha one of those tender and passionate friendships which can only exist between women. They were continually kissing each other and saying tender things to one another, and they spent the greater part of their time together. If one went away, the other was uneasy and hastened to join her. They felt more harmony together with each other than apart, each with herself. There sprang up between them a feeling stronger than friendship; that was the feeling of life being only possible in each other's company.

Sometimes they did not speak for hours together. Sometimes, as they lay in their beds, they would begin to talk, and talked till morning. They talked, for the most part, of their own remote past. Princess Marya told her of her childhood, of her mother, of her father, of her dreams. And Natasha, who had in the past turned away with calm acceptance of her non-comprehension of that life of devotion and resignation, of the idealism of Christian self-sacrifice, grew to love Princess Marya's past, and to understand that side of life of which she had had no conception before. She had no thought of imitating that resignation and self-sacrifice in her own life, because she was accustomed to look for other joys in life; but she understood and loved in another that virtue that had been till now beyond her ken. Princess Marya, too, as she listened to Natasha's stories of her childhood and early girlhood, had a glimpse of a side of life she had known nothing of, of faith in life and in the enjoyment of life.

They still refrained from talking of him, that they might not, as seemed to them, desecrate the exalted feeling in their hearts; but this reticence led them, though they would not have believed it, into gradually forgetting him.

Natasha had grown thin and pale, and was physically so weak that every one was continually talking about her health, and she was glad it was so. Yet sometimes she was suddenly seized, not simply by a dread of death, but by a dread of sickness, of ill-health, of losing her good looks; and sometimes she unconsciously examined her bare arm, marvelling at its thinness, or peeped in the looking-glass in the morning at her pinched face, and was touched by its piteous look. It seemed to her that this was as it should be, and yet she felt afraid and mournful at it.

One day she ran upstairs quickly, and was painfully short of breath. Immediately she made some pretext for going down again, and ran upstairs again, to try her strength and put herself to the test.

Another day she called Dunyasha, and her voice broke. She called her once more, though she heard her coming—called her in the deep chest voice with which she used to sing, and listened to the sound.

She knew it not, and would not have believed it yet though the layer of mould under which she fancied that her soul was buried seemed unbroken, the delicate, tender, young blades of grass were already pushing through it, and were destined to take root, and so to hide the grief that had crushed her under their living shoots that it would soon be unseen and forgotten. The wound was healing from within.

Towards the end of January Princess Marya set off for Moscow, and the count insisted on Natasha going with her to consult the doctors.

玛丽亚公爵小姐推迟了启程日期。索尼娅、伯爵都很想把娜塔莎替换下来。他们未能办到。他们看得出，只有她才能使她母亲不致陷入疯狂的绝望。娜塔莎在母亲身边守候了三个星期，寸步不离，在她屋内椅子上睡觉，给她喂水，喂饭，不停地和她说话，因为只有她一个人的既温柔又亲切的声音才能使伯爵夫人得到安慰。

母亲的精神创伤无法医治。彼佳的死亡夺去了她一半的生命。自从获悉彼佳死讯，过了一个月，她才从屋里走出来，她原本是一个精神饱满、热爱生活的才刚刚五十岁的女人，这时却变成了一个半死不活，对生活没有兴趣的老太婆了。而夺去伯爵夫人一半生命的这个创伤，这一新的创伤却唤醒了娜塔莎。

由于精神崩溃而造成的心灵创伤，不管这似乎是多么奇怪，恰恰像肉体的创伤一样，在渐渐愈合。而一个很深的伤口愈合之后，就好像是自己渐渐长好了一样，心灵的创作也和肉体创伤一样只能依靠发自内在的生命力医治。

娜塔莎的创伤就是这样痊愈的。她想到，她的生命已经终结了。然而，对母亲的爱突然证明，生命的本质——爱——

仍然活在心中，爱复苏了，于是生命也复苏了。

安德烈公爵临终前的那些日子，把娜塔莎和玛丽亚公爵小姐连系在一起。新的不幸使她们之间更加亲近。玛利亚公爵小姐推迟了启程日期，在最近三个星期中，她像照顾一个生病的小孩子那样，照料着娜塔莎。娜塔莎在母亲的房间里呆了几个星期，这段时间几乎耗尽了她的体力。

一天中午，玛丽亚公爵小姐发现娜塔莎冷得直打哆嗦，就把她拉到自己房间，让她躺在自己床上。娜塔莎躺着，但是当玛丽亚公爵小姐放下窗帘要出去时，娜塔莎把她叫到身边。

“我不想睡，玛丽，陪我坐一会儿。”

“你累了，一定要睡一下。”

“不，不。你为什么带我来这里？她会找我的。”

“她好多了。她今天说话很正常。”玛丽亚公爵小姐说。

娜塔莎躺在床上，借助房间里半阴半暗的光线仔细端详玛丽亚公爵小姐的脸庞。

“她像他吗？”娜塔莎想。是的，又像又不像。但是，她是一个特别的、陌生的、全新的、令人难以理解的人。她是爱她的。她的内心又怎样呢？全都好。怎么好法？她是怎么想的？她对我有什么看法？是的，她太好了。

“玛莎，”她羞怯地拉住她的一只手，说，“玛莎，你不要以为我很坏。不是吗？玛莎，我是多么爱你啊，让我们做真正、真正的好朋友吧。”

娜塔莎拥抱玛丽亚公爵小姐，吻她的手和脸。玛丽亚公爵小姐对娜塔莎表现出的这种感情是又喜又羞。

从这一天起，在玛丽亚公爵小姐和娜塔莎之间建立了只有在女人之间才有的亲切的温情的友谊。她们不停地相互亲吻，说着温情的话，大部分时间她们都呆在一块儿。如果有一个外出了，另一个就烦躁不安，赶快紧随其后。

她们俩都觉得，俩人在一起比独自一人更和谐。她们之间感情比友谊更强烈：这是一种只有在一起才能生存下去的特殊感情。

她们有时一连数小时默不作声；有时已经上了床，才开始谈话，一谈就谈到天亮。她们多半是诉说往事。玛丽亚公爵小姐讲述她的童年，她的母亲，她的父亲和她的理想；娜塔莎原先不愿过那种虔诚、顺从的生活，不懂得基督教自我牺牲的诗意，而现在她觉得她和玛丽亚公爵小姐被爱联系在一起了，她开始爱玛丽亚公爵小姐的过去，懂得了她原先不懂的生活的另一面。她自己不愿过那种顺从生活，不信奉基督教的自我牺牲，因为她习惯寻求另外一些欢乐，但是她懂得了而且爱上了对方那种她原先不理解的美德。至于玛丽亚公爵小姐，她听了娜塔莎讲述了童年和少年的故事，也发现了她原先不了解的生活的另一个方面，要相信生活，相信生活的乐趣。

她们绝口不谈及关于他的一切，她们觉得那些话会破坏在她们心中建立起来的崇高的感情，而这种缄默，竟然令人难以置信地，使她们渐渐地忘记了他。

娜塔莎瘦了，脸色苍白，身子太弱，致使大家常谈及她的健康，而她却高兴。然而她有时忽然不仅怕死，而且怕病，怕衰弱，怕失去美貌，她有时细看手臂，瘦得使她惊愕，或者早上照镜子看瘦长的，她觉得可怜的脸。她觉得，应当这样，而又觉得可怕和可悲。

一次，她快步上楼，喘不过气，不由得想退回，为了试试体力，看看自己，又往上爬。

又一回，她叫杜尼亚莎，声音发抖。她听见了杜尼亚莎的脚步声，她用唱歌的胸音又叫了一声，自己仔细倾听这个声音。

她不知道，也不相信，从她心中看来无法穿透的土层中，萌出细嫩的幼芽，一定会生根，以她生气盎然的嫩叶遮盖住她的悲哀，很快就会看不见，觉不出。创伤从内部慢慢愈合。

一月底，玛丽亚公爵小姐启程赴莫斯科，伯爵坚持要娜塔莎和她一道前往，以便在莫斯科请医生看病。