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.