Book 12 Chapter 15

WHEN NATASHA opened the door with her practised hands, letting her pass in before her, Princess Marya felt the sobs rising in her throat. However much she prepared herself, however much she tried to compose herself, she knew that she would not be able to see him without tears:

She understood what Natasha had meant by the words: two days ago this change came. She interpreted it as meaning that he had suddenly grown softer, and that that softening, that tenderness, was the sign of death. As she approached the door, she saw already in her imagination that face of the little Andryusha, as she had known it in childhood, tender, gentle, softened, as it was so rarely, and as it affected her so strongly. She felt sure he would say soft, tender words to her like those her father had uttered on his deathbed, and that she would not be able to bear it, and would break into sobs at them. But sooner or later, it must be, and she went into the room. Her sobs seemed rising higher and higher in her throat as with her short-sighted eyes she distinguished his figure more and more clearly, and now she saw his face and met his eyes.

He was lying on a couch, propped up with cushions, in a squirrel-lined dressing-gown. He was thin and pale. One thin, transparently white hand held a handkerchief, with the other he was softly fingering the delicate moustache that had grown long. His eyes gazed at them as they came in.

On seeing his face and meeting his eyes, Princess Marya at once slackened the rapidity of her step and felt the tears dried up and the sobs checked. As she caught the expression of his face and eyes, she felt suddenly shy and guilty.

“But how am I in fault?” she asked herself. “In being alive and thinking of the living while I! …” his cold, stern eyes seemed to answer.

In the profound, not outward- but inward-looking gaze there was something almost like hostility as he deliberately scanned his sister and Natasha. He kissed his sister's hand, while she kissed his, as their habit was.

“How are you, Marie; how did you manage to get here?” he said, in a voice as even and as aloof as the look in his eyes. If he had uttered a shriek of despair, that shriek would have been to Princess Marya less awful than the sound of his voice.

“And you have brought Nikolushka?” he said, as evenly and deliberately, with an evident effort to recollect things.

“How are you now?” said Princess Marya, wondering herself at what she was saying.

“That, my dear, you must ask the doctor,” he said, and evidently making another effort to be affectionate, he said with his lips only (it was obvious he was not thinking of what he was saying):

“Thank you, my dear, for coming.”

Princess Marya pressed his hand. He gave a hardly perceptible frown at the pressure of her hand. She was silent, and she did not know what to say. She understood the change that had come over him two days ago. In his words, in his tone, above all in his eyes—those cold, almost antagonistic eyes—could be felt that aloofness from all things earthly that is so fearful to a living man. It was evidently with difficulty that he understood anything living; but yet it seemed that he did not understand what was living, not because he had lost the power of understanding, but because he understood something else that the living did not and could not understand, and that entirely absorbed him.

“Yes, see how strangely fate has brought us together again,” he said, breaking the silence, and pointing to Natasha. “She is nursing me.”

Princess Marya heard him, and could not understand what he was saying. He, Prince Andrey, with his delicate, tender intuition, how could he say that before the girl whom he loved, and who loved him! If he had any thought of living, he could not have said that in that slightingly cold tone. If he had not known he was going to die, how could he have failed to feel for her, how could he speak like that before her! There could be but one explanation of it—that was, that it was all of no moment to him now, and of no moment because something else, more important, had been revealed to him.

The conversation was frigid and disconnected, and broke off at every moment.

“Marie came by Ryazan,” said Natasha.

Prince Andrey did not notice that she called his sister Marie. And Natasha, calling her by that name before him, for the first time became aware of it herself.

“Well?” said he.

“She was told that Moscow had been burnt to the ground, all of it entirely. That it looks as though …”

Natasha stopped. It was impossible to talk. He was obviously making an effort to listen, and yet he could not.

“Yes; it's burnt, they say,” he said. “That's a great pity,” and he gazed straight before him, his fingers straying heedlessly about his moustache.

“And so you met Count Nikolay, Marie?” said Prince Andrey, suddenly, evidently trying to say something to please them. “He wrote here what a great liking he took to you,” he went on, simply and calmly, plainly unable to grasp all the complex significance his words had for living people. “If you liked him, too, it would be a very good thing … for you to get married,” he added, rather more quickly, apparently pleased at finding at last the words he had been seeking. Princess Marya heard his words, but they had no significance for her except as showing how terribly far away he was now from everything living.

“Why talk of me?” she said calmly, and glanced at Natasha. Natasha, feeling her eyes on her, did not look at her. Again all of them were silent.

“Andrey, would you …” Princess Marya said suddenly in a shaky voice, “would you like to see Nikolushka? He is always talking of you.”

For the first time Prince Andrey smiled a faintly perceptible smile, but Princess Marya, who knew his face so well, saw with horror that it was a smile not of joy, not of tenderness for his son, but of quiet, gentle irony at his sister's trying what she believed to be the last resource for rousing him to feeling.

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

When they brought in little Nikolushka, who gazed in dismay at his father, but did not cry, because nobody else was crying, Prince Andrey kissed him, and obviously did not know what to say to him.

When they had taken the child away, Princess Marya went up to her brother once more, kissed him, and unable to control herself any longer, began to weep.

He looked at her intently.

“You weep for Nikolushka?” he asked.

Princess Marya nodded through her tears.

“Marie, you know the Gos …” he began, but suddenly paused.

“What do you say?”

“Nothing. You mustn't weep here,” he said, looking at her with the same cold eyes.

When Princess Marya wept he knew that she was weeping that Nikolushka would be left without a father. With a great effort he tried to come back again to life, and to put himself at their point of view.

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

“ ‘They sow not, neither do they reap, but your Father feedeth them,' ” he said to himself, and he wanted to say it to his sister. But no, they would understand it in their own way; they would not understand! What they cannot understand is that these feelings that they set store by—all our feelings, all these thoughts, which seem of so much importance to us—that they are all not wanted! We cannot understand each other!” and he was silent.

Prince Andrey's little son was seven years old. He could hardly read—he knew nothing. He passed through much after that day, gaining knowledge, observation, experience. But if he had possessed at that time all the mental faculties he acquired afterwards, he could not have had a truer, a deeper comprehension of all the significance of the scene he saw passing between his father, Princess Marya, and Natasha than he had now. He understood it all, and without weeping, went out of the room, in silence went up to Natasha, who had followed him out; glanced shyly at her with his beautiful, dreamy eyes: his uplifted, rosy upper lip quivered; he leaned his head against her, and burst into tears.

From that day he avoided Dessalle, avoided the countess, who would have petted him, and either sat alone, or shyly joined Princess Marya and Natasha, whom he seemed to love even more than his aunt, and bestowed shy and gentle caresses upon them.

When Princess Marya left her brother's side, she fully understood all that Natasha's face had told her. She spoke no more to Natasha of hope of saving his life. She took turns with her by his bedside, and she shed no more tears, but prayed without ceasing, turning in spirit to the Eternal and Unfathomable whose presence was palpable now, hovering over the dying man.

当娜塔莎用习惯的动作推开他的房门，让公爵小姐先进去时，玛丽亚公爵小姐的喉咙哽咽得马上就要放声大哭。无论她如何控制，无论她如何努力保持平静，她都知道她没法见到他时不流泪。

玛丽亚公爵小姐明了娜塔莎说的：两天前他出现了那种情况，是什么意思。她明了，这意味着他突然变得温和了，而这种温和易于感动是死亡的前兆。她走近房门时，便已在想象中看到安德留沙那张脸，那张她童年见到的柔和、瘦削、可爱的脸，他的脸不常这样，所以总是给她以强烈的影响。她也知道，他会对她说一些轻轻的温情的话，像父亲临终前对她说的那些话，并且，她会忍受不了，而伏在他身上嚎啕大哭。但迟早总会这样，免不了的，于是，她跨进了房间，在喉咙里忍也忍不住愈来愈要哭出来的一刹那，她用近视的眼睛渐渐分辨出他的体形，找到了他的脸，她终于看到他的脸，并和他目光相遇。

他躺在沙发上，周围塞着枕头，穿一件松鼠皮长袍。他消瘦苍白，一只枯瘦的、白得透明的手拿着一条小手巾，另一只手抹着他稀疏的长出来的胡子，缓缓移动着手指头，眼睛望着来人。

玛丽亚公爵小姐看到他的脸，和他相互对视的时候，突然放慢了脚步，并且感觉到眼泪一下子干了，哭泣也止住了。捕捉到他的脸上和眼里的表情，她突然胆怯起来，觉得自己有罪。

“可我在什么地方有罪呢？”她问自己，“在于你活着，并想着活人，而我！……”他冷峻的目光回答说。

在他缓缓地打量妹妹和娜塔莎的时候，他那不是往外看，而是内视的深刻的目光里，几乎含有敌意。

他同妹妹接吻，互相吻了吻手，像他们从前一样。

“你好，玛丽，你是怎么到达这儿来的？”他说，声音平静陌生，像他的目光一样。假如他爆发出绝望的叫喊，那叫喊反倒不会比他此时说话的声音更令玛丽亚公爵小姐害怕。

“也把尼古卢什卡带来了吗？”他同样平静、缓慢地问，并且显然努力地在回忆。

“你现在身体怎么样？”玛丽亚公爵小姐问，问得使她自己都吃惊，

“这嘛，我的亲爱的，该问医生，”他说，在看来尽量使自己和颜悦色之后，他又说，只是用嘴说话（他显然心里完全不想他说的什么）：

“Merci，chèreamie，d'êtrevenue．”①

①谢谢你来了，亲爱的。

玛丽亚公爵小姐握住他的手。这使他略微皱眉，但不明显。他沉默着，而她不知道说什么。她明白了他两天来发生的情况。他的话里面，他的声调里面，尤其在目光里——冷冷的几乎含着敌意的目光里——感觉得出使一个活人害怕的对世俗生活的疏远。他好像难以理解一切有生命的东西；但同时你会觉得，他不理解有生命的东西，并非因为他丧失了理解力，而是因为他理解别的活人不理解也不能理解的东西，这些东西吞没了整个的他。

“瞧，命运多么奇怪地把我们带到了这里！”他说，打破了沉默，并指着娜塔莎。“她一直照料着我。”

玛丽亚公爵小姐听着，但不明白他说的话。他，聪颖温柔的安德烈公爵，怎么可能当着他所爱的人的面，（而这个人也爱他）说出这样的话呢！假使他还想活下去，他是不会用冷冷的伤人的口气说出这句话来的。假如他不知道他将死去，他怎么这样不怜惜她，怎么能当着她的面说出这句话呢！对此，只有一个解释：那就是一切对他都无所谓了，而一切都无所谓了，则是因为某种别的最重要的东西给予他以启示。

谈话是没有生气的，不连贯的，并时时中断。

“玛丽是取道梁赞来的。”娜塔莎说。安德烈公爵未注意到她叫他的妹妹玛丽。而娜塔莎，当他的面这样称呼她之后，却第一次自己注意到了。

“呶，又怎样呢？”他说。

“她听说，莫斯科全城烧毁了，完全，好像……”

娜塔莎停住：本来就不该说的。他看来是在挣扎着听，然而总是做不到。

“是啊，烧毁了，都在说呢，”他说道，“这很可惜。”他开始直视前方，用手指茫然地抹平胡子。

“你，玛丽，见到尼古拉伯爵了吗？”安德烈公爵突然说道，看来是希望使她们高兴。“他写信到这里来说，他非常喜欢你，”他继续简略地平静地说，至于他的话对活人具有的复杂意义，看来他无法全部了解。“假如你也爱上了他，要是你们结婚……那是很好的呢。”他又补充一句，说得还有点快，似乎对他找了很久终于找到的话感到喜悦。玛丽亚公爵小姐听到了他的话，但他的话对她毫无意义，只不过证实，他现在离一切有生命的东西可怕地遥远。

“干吗谈我！”她平静地说，看了娜塔莎一眼。感觉到她的目光停留在自己身上，娜塔莎没有抬头看她。大家再度沉默。

“Andre，你想……”玛丽亚公爵小姐突然用颤抖的声音说，“你想见尼古卢什卡吗？他一直很怀念你。”

安德烈公爵几乎看不出地微笑了，这还是第一次呢，但玛丽亚公爵小姐，她是那样熟悉他的脸色，却恐惧地看到，这不是欢乐的微笑，不是对儿子慈爱的微笑，而是轻微的、温和的嘲笑，嘲笑玛丽亚公爵小姐坚持己见，使用了这最后一着来激发他的感情。

“好，我为尼古卢什卡感到高兴。他好吗？”

当尼古卢什卡被带到安德烈公爵面前，他害怕地看着父亲，但没有哭，因为谁也没哭，安德烈公爵吻了他，却显然不知道同他说什么。

尼古卢什卡被带走后，玛丽亚公爵小姐再次走近哥哥，吻他，接着再也忍不住地哭了。

他凝视着她。

“你哭尼古卢什卡吗？”他问道。

玛丽亚公爵小姐哭着，肯定地点点头。

“玛丽，你知道《福音》……”但他突然沉默下来。

“你说什么？”

“没什么。不该在这里哭呢。”他说，仍然用冷漠的目光看着她。

当玛丽亚公爵小姐哭出来的时候，他明白，她是哭尼古卢什卡就要没有父亲了。他集中了一股巨大力量，努力回到尘世生活中来，转向她们所抱的看法。

“是的，她们应该觉得遗憾！”他想，“不过，这是多么简单啊！”

“天上的鸟儿不种不收，你们的主尚且养活它们。”①他自言自语道，并且想说给公爵小姐听。“啊不，她们有自己的理解，她们不会理解的！她们所以不能理解，是因为她们珍视的感情，我们觉得重大的思想，所有这一切——都是无用的。

我们不能心灵相通啊！”于是，他沉默了。

①是《新约·马太福音》第六章第二十六节。

安德烈公爵的小儿子只有七岁。他刚学会识字，什么也不懂。这天之后，他感受了很多东西，得到了知识，观察力，经验；但是，就算他先已具备了这些能力，他也不可能比这一时刻更好更深刻地明白他父亲，玛丽亚姑姑和娜塔莎之间的场面的意义。他什么都明白了，一声不哭就离开了房间，默默地走到尾随他出来的娜塔莎旁边，害羞地用沉思的俊秀的眼睛看了看她；他那向上翘着的鲜红的上嘴唇颤抖了，他把头靠在她身上哭了。

从这天起，他躲着德萨尔，躲着爱抚他的伯爵夫人，要么一个人坐着，要么胆怯地去接近玛丽亚姑姑和娜塔莎，他似乎喜欢娜塔莎胜过自己的姑姑，他悄悄地羞怯地缠着她们。

玛丽亚公爵小姐走出安德烈公爵房间，完全明白了娜塔莎脸上告诉她的一切。她不再同娜塔莎谈论挽救他生命的希望。她和她轮流守候在他沙发旁，不再哭泣，只是不停地祈祷，内心求助于那个永恒的不可企及的主宰，他的存在已经在垂死者的头上感觉到了。