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.
