CHAPTER VIII

Sónya’s letter written from Tróitsa, which had come as an answer to
Nicholas’ prayer, was prompted by this: the thought of getting Nicholas
married to an heiress occupied the old countess’ mind more and more. She
knew that Sónya was the chief obstacle to this happening, and Sónya’s life
in the countess’ house had grown harder and harder, especially after they
had received a letter from Nicholas telling of his meeting with Princess
Mary in Boguchárovo. The countess let no occasion slip of making
humiliating or cruel allusions to Sónya.

But a few days before they left Moscow, moved and excited by all that was
going on, she called Sónya to her and, instead of reproaching and making
demands on her, tearfully implored her to sacrifice herself and repay all
that the family had done for her by breaking off her engagement with
Nicholas.

“I shall not be at peace till you promise me this.”

Sónya burst into hysterical tears and replied through her sobs that she
would do anything and was prepared for anything, but gave no actual
promise and could not bring herself to decide to do what was demanded of
her. She must sacrifice herself for the family that had reared and brought
her up. To sacrifice herself for others was Sónya’s habit. Her position in
the house was such that only by sacrifice could she show her worth, and
she was accustomed to this and loved doing it. But in all her former acts
of self-sacrifice she had been happily conscious that they raised her in
her own esteem and in that of others, and so made her more worthy of
Nicholas whom she loved more than anything in the world. But now they
wanted her to sacrifice the very thing that constituted the whole reward
for her self-sacrifice and the whole meaning of her life. And for the
first time she felt bitterness against those who had been her benefactors
only to torture her the more painfully; she felt jealous of Natásha who
had never experienced anything of this sort, had never needed to sacrifice
herself, but made others sacrifice themselves for her and yet was beloved
by everybody. And for the first time Sónya felt that out of her pure,
quiet love for Nicholas a passionate feeling was beginning to grow up
which was stronger than principle, virtue, or religion. Under the
influence of this feeling Sónya, whose life of dependence had taught her
involuntarily to be secretive, having answered the countess in vague
general terms, avoided talking with her and resolved to wait till she
should see Nicholas, not in order to set him free but on the contrary at
that meeting to bind him to her forever.

The bustle and terror of the Rostóvs’ last days in Moscow stifled the
gloomy thoughts that oppressed Sónya. She was glad to find escape from
them in practical activity. But when she heard of Prince Andrew’s presence
in their house, despite her sincere pity for him and for Natásha, she was
seized by a joyful and superstitious feeling that God did not intend her
to be separated from Nicholas. She knew that Natásha loved no one but
Prince Andrew and had never ceased to love him. She knew that being thrown
together again under such terrible circumstances they would again fall in
love with one another, and that Nicholas would then not be able to marry
Princess Mary as they would be within the prohibited degrees of affinity.
Despite all the terror of what had happened during those last days and
during the first days of their journey, this feeling that Providence was
intervening in her personal affairs cheered Sónya.

At the Tróitsa monastery the Rostóvs first broke their journey for a whole
day.

Three large rooms were assigned to them in the monastery hostelry, one of
which was occupied by Prince Andrew. The wounded man was much better that
day and Natásha was sitting with him. In the next room sat the count and
countess respectfully conversing with the prior, who was calling on them
as old acquaintances and benefactors of the monastery. Sónya was there
too, tormented by curiosity as to what Prince Andrew and Natásha were
talking about. She heard the sound of their voices through the door. That
door opened and Natásha came out, looking excited. Not noticing the monk,
who had risen to greet her and was drawing back the wide sleeve on his
right arm, she went up to Sónya and took her hand.

“Natásha, what are you about? Come here!” said the countess.

Natásha went up to the monk for his blessing, and he advised her to pray
for aid to God and His saint.

As soon as the prior withdrew, Natásha took her friend by the hand and
went with her into the unoccupied room.

“Sónya, will he live?” she asked. “Sónya, how happy I am, and how
unhappy!… Sónya, dovey, everything is as it used to be. If only he
lives! He cannot… because… because… of…” and Natásha burst into
tears.

“Yes! I knew it! Thank God!” murmured Sónya. “He will live.”

Sónya was not less agitated than her friend by the latter’s fear and grief
and by her own personal feelings which she shared with no one. Sobbing,
she kissed and comforted Natásha. “If only he lives!” she thought. Having
wept, talked, and wiped away their tears, the two friends went together to
Prince Andrew’s door. Natásha opened it cautiously and glanced into the
room, Sónya standing beside her at the half-open door.

Prince Andrew was lying raised high on three pillows. His pale face was
calm, his eyes closed, and they could see his regular breathing.

“O, Natásha!” Sónya suddenly almost screamed, catching her companion’s arm
and stepping back from the door.

“What? What is it?” asked Natásha.

“It’s that, that…” said Sónya, with a white face and trembling lips.

Natásha softly closed the door and went with Sónya to the window, not yet
understanding what the latter was telling her.

“You remember,” said Sónya with a solemn and frightened expression. “You
remember when I looked in the mirror for you… at Otrádnoe at Christmas?
Do you remember what I saw?”

“Yes, yes!” cried Natásha opening her eyes wide, and vaguely recalling
that Sónya had told her something about Prince Andrew whom she had seen
lying down.

“You remember?” Sónya went on. “I saw it then and told everybody, you and
Dunyásha. I saw him lying on a bed,” said she, making a gesture with her
hand and a lifted finger at each detail, “and that he had his eyes closed
and was covered just with a pink quilt, and that his hands were folded,”
she concluded, convincing herself that the details she had just seen were
exactly what she had seen in the mirror.

She had in fact seen nothing then but had mentioned the first thing that
came into her head, but what she had invented then seemed to her now as
real as any other recollection. She not only remembered what she had then
said—that he turned to look at her and smiled and was covered with
something red—but was firmly convinced that she had then seen and
said that he was covered with a pink quilt and that his eyes were closed.

“Yes, yes, it really was pink!” cried Natásha, who now thought she too
remembered the word pink being used, and saw in this the most
extraordinary and mysterious part of the prediction.

“But what does it mean?” she added meditatively.

“Oh, I don’t know, it is all so strange,” replied Sónya, clutching at her
head.

A few minutes later Prince Andrew rang and Natásha went to him, but Sónya,
feeling unusually excited and touched, remained at the window thinking
about the strangeness of what had occurred.

They had an opportunity that day to send letters to the army, and the
countess was writing to her son.

“Sónya!” said the countess, raising her eyes from her letter as her niece
passed, “Sónya, won’t you write to Nicholas?” She spoke in a soft,
tremulous voice, and in the weary eyes that looked over her spectacles
Sónya read all that the countess meant to convey with these words. Those
eyes expressed entreaty, shame at having to ask, fear of a refusal, and
readiness for relentless hatred in case of such refusal.

Sónya went up to the countess and, kneeling down, kissed her hand.

“Yes, Mamma, I will write,” said she.

Sónya was softened, excited, and touched by all that had occurred that
day, especially by the mysterious fulfillment she had just seen of her
vision. Now that she knew that the renewal of Natásha’s relations with
Prince Andrew would prevent Nicholas from marrying Princess Mary, she was
joyfully conscious of a return of that self-sacrificing spirit in which
she was accustomed to live and loved to live. So with a joyful
consciousness of performing a magnanimous deed—interrupted several
times by the tears that dimmed her velvety black eyes—she wrote that
touching letter the arrival of which had so amazed Nicholas.