War and Peace: Original Version. Лев Толстой
the train of her own thoughts rather than the course of the conversation, “and that is a great sin. How can we possibly judge our father? And even if it were possible, then what feeling, apart from profound respect, can a man such as our father inspire? I am so content and happy with him. My only wish would be for you all to be as happy as I am.”
Her brother shook his head mistrustfully.
“The one thing that I do find hard – I will tell you truly, Andrei – is father’s way of thinking where religion is concerned. I don’t understand how a man of such immense intelligence can fail to see what is as clear as day and can go so far astray! This is my only unhappiness. But even here I have recently seen some improvement. Lately his jibes have been less barbed, and he has received one particular monk and spent a long time talking with him.”
“Well, I fear that you and the monk are wasting your efforts, Masha,” Prince Andrei said mockingly but affectionately.
“Ah, mon ami! I only pray to God and hope that he will hear me. Andrei!” she said timidly after a moment of silence. “I have something very important to ask you.”
“What, my dear?”
“No, promise you won’t refuse. It will give you no trouble at all and is in no way unworthy of you. You will simply console me. Promise, Andriusha,” she said, thrusting her hand into her reticule and grasping something inside without withdrawing it, as though this something that she held was the object of her request and could not be revealed until she had received his promise to fulfil her request. She looked at her brother with a timid, imploring expression.
“Even if it were a lot of trouble …” Prince Andrei replied, as if he could guess what it was all about.
“You think what you like. I know you’re just the same as father. Think what you like, but do this for me. Do it, please! Father’s father, our grandfather, wore it in all the wars.” She still did not take the thing she was holding out of her reticule. “Well, do you promise me?”
“Of course, but what is the problem?”
“Andrei, I shall bless you with the icon, and you must promise me that you will never take it off. Do you promise?”
“So long as it doesn’t weigh two poods and won’t sprain my neck. Anything to please you,” said Prince Andrei but, instantly noticing the sorrowful expression that his sister’s face had assumed at his jest, he repented. “I shall be very glad, truly, very glad, my dear friend,” he added.
“Against your will He will save you and spare you and turn you to Him, because in Him alone lie both truth and peace,” she said in a voice trembling with feeling, solemnly holding up in front of her brother with both hands a little old oval icon of the Saviour with a dark face, set in a silver riza and hung on a finely worked little silver chain. She crossed herself, kissed the little icon and held it out to Andrei.
“Please, for me …”
Bright rays of kindly light shone from her timidly glowing eyes. Those radiant eyes illuminated her always sickly, thin face and made it beautiful. Andrei wanted to take the icon, but she stopped him. Andrei understood: he crossed himself and kissed the icon. At one and the same time his expression was tender (he was touched), loving, affectionate and mocking.
“Thank you, my dear.” She kissed his clear, brown forehead and sat down on the divan again. Neither of them spoke for a moment.
“I was telling you, Andrei, be kind and generous, as you always used to be. Don’t judge Lise harshly,” she began. “She is so loving, so kind and her position now is very difficult.”
“I do not believe, Masha, that I’ve ever told you I had reason to reproach my wife for anything or that I felt dissatisfied with her. Why are you saying this to me?”
Princess Marya blushed in patches and fell silent, as though she felt guilty.
“I have said nothing,” he went on, “but something has been said to you. And that makes me sad.”
The red blotches grew even more intense on Princess Marya’s forehead, neck and cheeks. She wanted to say something, but could not utter the words. Her brother guessed. After dinner the little princess had wept, saying she had a premonition that the birth would be disastrous, that she was afraid, and she had complained of her wretched fate, her father-in-law and her husband. When the tears stopped, she had fallen asleep. Prince Andrei felt sorry for his sister.
“Know one thing, Masha, there is nothing with which I can reproach my wife, I never have reproached her and never will; and there is nothing with which I can reproach myself concerning her, and it will always be so, no matter what my circumstances might be. But if you wish to know the truth … Do you wish to know if I am happy? No. Is she happy? No. Why is this? I do not know …”
So saying, he got to his feet, walked over to his sister, bent down and kissed her on the forehead. The lustrous glow of her beautiful eyes was unusually pensive and kind; however, he was not looking at his sister, but over her head into the darkness of the open door.
“Let us go to her, we must say goodbye. Or you go on without me, wake her up, and I will come in a moment. Petrushka!” he shouted to his valet. “Come here, take these things away. This goes on the seat, this on the right side.”
Princess Marya stood up and went towards the door. She stopped.
“If you had faith, you would turn to God in prayer for Him to grant you the love that you do not feel, and your prayer would be heard.”
“Yes, is that so?” said Prince Andrei. “Go, Masha, I will come in a moment.”
On the way to his sister’s room, in the gallery connecting one wing with the other, Prince Andrei encountered the sweetly smiling Mademoiselle Bourienne, crossing his path for the third time that day in remote passageways, with her rapturous and naïve smile.
“Ah, I thought you were in your room,” she said, for some reason blushing and lowering her pretty eyes. Prince Andrei glared hard at her. “I love this gallery, it’s so mysterious here.”
An expression of bitter fury suddenly erupted on Prince Andrei’s face, as if she and her kind were to blame for some misfortune in his life. Remaining silent and avoiding her eyes, he stared at her forehead and hair, but with such disdain that the Frenchwoman blushed and walked away without a word.
As he drew close to his sister’s room, the Princess Lise was already awake, and through the open door he could hear her merry little voice, hurrying out the words one after another. She was speaking as if she wanted to make up for lost time after long restraint.
“Yes, just imagine, the old Countess Zubova with false curls and with false teeth, as if she were defiantly mocking the years … Ha-ha-ha.”
Prince Andrei had already heard this precise phrase about the Countess Zubova and the same laugh from his wife in the company of strangers about five times. He quietly entered the room. The little princess, rotund and rosy, with her needlework in her hands, was sitting in an armchair, prattling incessantly, picking over her St. Petersburg reminiscences and running through her phrases. Prince Andrei went up to her, stroked her hair and asked if she was rested now after the journey. She made some reply and then continued with the same conversation.
The coach and team of six horses were standing at the entrance. Outside it was a warm autumn night. The coachman could not see the shafts of the carriage. On the porch people were bustling about with lanterns. The large windows of the huge, beautiful house were ablaze with lights. The domestics were jostling in the lobby, wishing to say goodbye to the young prince; all the members of the household were standing in the hall: Mikhail Ivanovich, Mademoiselle Bourienne, Princess Marya and Princess Lise. Prince Andrei had been called to the study by his father, who wanted to take his leave of him face to face. Everybody was waiting for them to come out.
When Prince Andrei entered the study, the old prince was sitting writing at the desk in his old man’s spectacles and the white dressing gown in which he never received anyone. He glanced round.