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NATASHA was calmer, but no happier. She did not merely shun every external
form of amusement—balls, skating, concerts, and theatres—but she never even
laughed without the sound of tears behind her laughter. She could not sing. As
soon as she began to laugh or attempted to sing all by herself, tears choked
her: tears of remorse; tears of regret for that time of pure happiness that
could never return; tears of vexation that she should so wantonly have ruined
her young life, that might have been so happy. Laughter and singing especially
seemed to her like scoffing at her grief. She never even thought of desiring
admiration; she had no impulse of vanity to restrain. She said and felt at that
time that all men were no more to her than Nastasya Ivanovna, the buffoon. An
inner sentinel seemed to guard against every sort of pleasure. And, indeed, she
seemed to have lost all the old interests of her girlish, careless life, that
had been so full of hope. Most often, and with most pining, she brooded over the
memory of those autumn months, the hunting, the old uncle, and the Christmas
holidays spent with Nikolay at Otradnoe. What would she not have given to bring
back one single day of that time! But it was all over for her. Her presentiment
at the time had not deceived her, that such a time of freedom and readiness for
every enjoyment would never come again. But yet she had to live.
It comforted her to think, not that she was better, as she had once fancied,
but worse, far worse than any one, than any one in the whole world. But that
meant little to her. She believed it; but then she asked: “And what next?” And
there was nothing to come. There was no gladness in life, but life was passing.
All Natasha tried after was plainly to be no burden to others, and not to hinder
other people's enjoyment; but for herself she wanted nothing. She held aloof
from all the household. It was only with her brother, Petya, that she felt at
ease. She liked being with him better than being with the rest, and sometimes
even laughed when she was alone with him. She hardly left the house to go
anywhere; and of the guests who came to the house she was only glad to see one
person—Pierre. No one could have been more tender, circumspect, and at the same
time serious, than Count Bezuhov in his manner to her. Natasha was unconsciously
aware of this tenderness, and it was owing to it that she found more pleasure in
his society. But she was not even grateful to him for it. Nothing good in him
seemed to her due to an effort on Pierre's part. It seemed so natural to Pierre
to be kind that there was no merit in his kindness. Sometimes Natasha noticed
some confusion or awkwardness in Pierre in her presence, especially when he was
trying to do something for her pleasure or afraid something in the conversation
might suggest to her painful reminiscences. She observed this, and put it down
to his general kindliness and shyness, which she supposed would be the same with
every one else. Ever since those unforeseen words—that if he had been free, he
would have asked on his knees for her hand and her love—uttered in a moment full
of violent emotion for her, Pierre had said nothing of his feelings to Natasha;
and it seemed to her clear that those words, which had so comforted her, had
been uttered, just as one says any meaningless nonsense to console a weeping
child. It was not because Pierre was a married man, but because Natasha felt
between herself and him the force of that moral barrier—of the absence of which
she had been so conscious with Kuragin—that the idea never occurred to her that
her relations with Pierre might develop into love on her side, and still less on
his, or even into that tender, self-conscious, romantic friendship between a man
and a woman, of which she had known several instances.
Towards the end of St. Peter's fast, Agrafena Ivanovna Byelov, a country
neighbour of the Rostovs, came to Moscow to pay her devotions to the saints
there. She suggested to Natasha that she should prepare herself for the
Sacrament, and Natasha caught eagerly at the suggestion. Although the doctors
forbade her going out early in the morning, Natasha insisted on keeping the
fast, and not simply as it was kept in the Rostovs' household, by taking part in
three services in the house, but keeping it as Agrafena Ivanova was doing, that
is to say, for a whole week, not missing a single early morning service, or
litany, or vesper.
The countess was pleased at these signs of religious fervour in Natasha.
After the poor results of medical treatment, at the bottom of her heart she
hoped that prayer would do more for her than medicine; and though she concealed
it from the doctors and had some inward misgivings, she fell in with Natasha's
wishes, and intrusted her to Madame Byelov.
Agrafena Ivanovna went in to wake Natasha at three o'clock in the night, and
frequently found her not asleep. Natasha was afraid of sleeping too late for the
early morning service. Hurriedly washing, and in all humility putting on her
shabbiest dress and old mantle, Natasha, shuddering at the chill air, went out
into the deserted streets, in the limpid light of the early dawn. By the advice
of Agrafena Ivanovna, Natasha did not attend the services of her own parish
church, but went to a church where the priest was esteemed by the devout Madame
Byelov as being of a particularly severe and exemplary life. There were few
people in the church. Natasha and Madame Byelov always took the same seat before
an image of the Mother of God, carved at the back of the left choir; and a new
feeling of humility before the great mystery came over Natasha, as at that
unusual hour in the morning she gazed at the black outline of the Mother of God,
with the light of the candles burning in front of it, and the morning light
falling on it from the window. She listened to the words of the service, and
tried to follow and understand them. When she did understand them, all the
shades of her personal feeling blended with her prayer; when she did not
understand, it was still sweeter for her to think that the desire to understand
all was pride, that she could not comprehend all; that she had but to believe
and give herself up to God, Who was, she felt, at those moments guiding her
soul. She crossed herself, bowed to the ground, and when she did not follow,
simply prayed to God to forgive her everything, everything, and to have mercy on
her, in horror at her own vileness. The prayer into which she threw herself
heart and soul was the prayer of repentance. On the way home in the early
morning, when they met no one but masons going to their work, or porters
cleaning the streets, and every one was asleep in the houses, Natasha had a new
sense of the possibility of correcting herself of her sins and leading a new
life of purity and happiness.
During the week she spent in this way, that feeling grew stronger with every
day. And the joy of “communication,” as Agrafena Ivanovna liked to call taking
the Communion, seemed to her so great that she fancied she could not live till
that blissful Sunday.
But the happy day did come. And when on that memorable Sunday Natasha
returned from the Sacrament wearing a white muslin dress, for the first time for
many months she felt at peace, and not oppressed by the life that lay before
her.
The doctor came that day to see Natasha, and gave directions for the powders
to be continued that he had begun prescribing a fortnight ago. “She must
certainly go on taking them morning and evening,” he said, with visible and
simple-hearted satisfaction at the success of his treatment. “Please, don't
forget them. You may set your mind at rest, countess,” the doctor said
playfully, as he deftly received the gold in the hollow of his palm. “She will
soon be singing and dancing again. The last medicine has done her great, great
good. She is very much better.”
The countess looked at her finger-nails and spat, to avert the ill-omen of
such words, as with a cheerful face she went back to the drawing-room.
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