|
Pierre well knew this large room divided by columns and an
arch, its walls hung round with Persian carpets. The part of the
room behind the columns, with a high silk-curtained mahogany bedstead
on one side and on the other an immense case containing icons,
was brightly illuminated with red light like a Russian church
during evening service. Under the gleaming icons stood a long
invalid chair, and in that chair on snowy-white smooth pillows,
evidently freshly changed, Pierre saw- covered to the waist by
a bright green quilt- the familiar, majestic figure of his father,
Count Bezukhov, with that gray mane of hair above his broad forehead
which reminded one of a lion, and the deep characteristically
noble wrinkles of his handsome, ruddy face. He lay just under
the icons; his large thick hands outside the quilt. Into the right
hand, which was lying palm downwards, a wax taper had been thrust
between forefinger and thumb, and an old servant, bending over
from behind the chair, held it in position. By the chair stood
the priests, their long hair falling over their magnificent glittering
vestments, with lighted tapers in their hands, slowly and solemnly
conducting the service. A little behind them stood the two younger
princesses holding handkerchiefs to their eyes, and just in front
of them their eldest sister, Catiche, with a vicious and determined
look steadily fixed on the icons, as though declaring to all that
she could not answer for herself should she glance round. Anna
Mikhaylovna, with a meek, sorrowful, and all-forgiving expression
on her face, stood by the door near the strange lady. Prince Vasili
in front of the door, near the invalid chair, a wax taper in his
left hand, was leaning his left arm on the carved back of a velvet
chair he had turned round for the purpose, and was crossing himself
with his right hand, turning his eyes upward each time he touched
his forehead. His face wore a calm look of piety and resignation
to the will of God. "If you do not understand these sentiments,"
he seemed to be saying, "so much the worse for you!"
Behind him stood the aide-de-camp, the doctors, and the menservants;
the men and women had separated as in church. All were silently
crossing themselves, and the reading of the church service, the
subdued chanting of deep bass voices, and in the intervals sighs
and the shuffling of feet were the only sounds that could be heard.
Anna Mikhaylovna, with an air of importance that showed that she
felt she quite knew what she was about, went across the room to
where Pierre was standing and gave him a taper. He lit it and,
distracted by observing those around him, began crossing himself
with the hand that held the taper.
Sophie, the rosy, laughter-loving, youngest princess with
the mole, watched him. She smiled, hid her face in her handkerchief,
and remained with it hidden for awhile; then looking up and seeing
Pierre she again began to laugh. She evidently felt unable to
look at him without laughing, but could not resist looking at
him: so to be out of temptation she slipped quietly behind one
of the columns. In the midst of the service the voices of the
priests suddenly ceased, they whispered to one another, and the
old servant who was holding the count's hand got up and said something
to the ladies. Anna Mikhaylovna stepped forward and, stooping
over the dying man, beckoned to Lorrain from behind her back.
The French doctor held no taper; he was leaning against one of
the columns in a respectful attitude implying that he, a foreigner,
in spite of all differences of faith, understood the full importance
of the rite now being performed and even approved of it. He now
approached the sick man with the noiseless step of one in full
vigor of life, with his delicate white fingers raised from the
green quilt the hand that was free, and turning sideways felt
the pulse and reflected a moment. The sick man was given something
to drink, there was a stir around him, then the people resumed
their places and the service continued. During this interval Pierre
noticed that Prince Vasili left the chair on which he had been
leaning, and- with air which intimated that he knew what he was
about and if others did not understand him it was so much the
worse for them- did not go up to the dying man, but passed by
him, joined the eldest princess, and moved with her to the side
of the room where stood the high bedstead with its silken hangings.
On leaving the bed both Prince Vasili and the princess passed
out by a back door, but returned to their places one after the
other before the service was concluded. Pierre paid no more attention
to this occurrence than to the rest of what went on, having made
up his mind once for all that what he saw happening around him
that evening was in some way essential.
The chanting of the service ceased, and the voice of the priest
was heard respectfully congratulating the dying man on having
received the sacrament. The dying man lay as lifeless and immovable
as before. Around him everyone began to stir: steps were audible
and whispers, among which Anna Mikhaylovna's was the most distinct.
Pierre heard her say:
"Certainly he must be moved onto the bed; here it will
be impossible..."
The sick man was so surrounded by doctors, princesses, and
servants that Pierre could no longer see the reddish-yellow face
with its gray mane- which, though he saw other faces as well,
he had not lost sight of for a single moment during the whole
service. He judged by the cautious movements of those who crowded
round the invalid chair that they had lifted the dying man and
were moving him.
"Catch hold of my arm or you'll drop him!" he heard
one of the servants say in a frightened whisper. "Catch hold
from underneath. Here!" exclaimed different voices; and the
heavy breathing of the bearers and the shuffling of their feet
grew more hurried, as if the weight they were carrying were too
much for them.
As the bearers, among whom was Anna Mikhaylovna, passed the
young man he caught a momentary glimpse between their heads and
backs of the dying man's high, stout, uncovered chest and powerful
shoulders, raised by those who were holding him under the armpits,
and of his gray, curly, leonine head. This head, with its remarkably
broad brow and cheekbones, its handsome, sensual mouth, and its
cold, majestic expression, was not disfigured by the approach
of death. It was the same as Pierre remembered it three months
before, when the count had sent him to Petersburg. But now this
head was swaying helplessly with the uneven movements of the bearers,
and the cold listless gaze fixed itself upon nothing.
After a few minutes' bustle beside the high bedstead, those
who had carried the sick man dispersed. Anna Mikhaylovna touched
Pierre's hand and said, "Come." Pierre went with her
to the bed on which the sick man had been laid in a stately pose
in keeping with the ceremony just completed. He lay with his head
propped high on the pillows. His hands were symmetrically placed
on the green silk quilt, the palms downward. When Pierre came
up the count was gazing straight at him, but with a look the significance
of which could not be understood by mortal man. Either this look
meant nothing but that as long as one has eyes they must look
somewhere, or it meant too much. Pierre hesitated, not knowing
what to do, and glanced inquiringly at his guide. Anna Mikhaylovna
made a hurried sign with her eyes, glancing at the sick man's
hand and moving her lips as if to send it a kiss. Pierre, carefully
stretching his neck so as not to touch the quilt, followed her
suggestion and pressed his lips to the large boned, fleshy hand.
Neither the hand nor a single muscle of the count's face stirred.
Once more Pierre looked questioningly at Anna Mikhaylovna to see
what he was to do next. Anna Mikhaylovna with her eyes indicated
a chair that stood beside the bed. Pierre obediently sat down,
his eyes asking if he were doing right. Anna Mikhaylovna nodded
approvingly. Again Pierre fell into the naively symmetrical pose
of an Egyptian statue, evidently distressed that his stout and
clumsy body took up so much room and doing his utmost to look
as small as possible. He looked at the count, who still gazed
at the spot where Pierre's face had been before he sat down. Anna
Mikhaylovna indicated by her attitude her consciousness of the
pathetic importance of these last moments of meeting between the
father and son. This lasted about two minutes, which to Pierre
seemed an hour. Suddenly the broad muscles and lines of the count's
face began to twitch. The twitching increased, the handsome mouth
was drawn to one side (only now did Pierre realize how near death
his father was), and from that distorted mouth issued an indistinct,
hoarse sound. Anna Mikhaylovna looked attentively at the sick
man's eyes, trying to guess what he wanted; she pointed first
to Pierre, then to some drink, then named Prince Vasili in an
inquiring whisper, then pointed to the quilt. The eyes and face
of the sick man showed impatience. He made an effort to look at
the servant who stood constantly at the head of the bed.
"Wants to turn on the other side," whispered the
servant, and got up to turn the count's heavy body toward the
wall.
Pierre rose to help him.
While the count was being turned over, one of his arms fell
back helplessly and he made a fruitless effort to pull it forward.
Whether he noticed the look of terror with which Pierre regarded
that lifeless arm, or whether some other thought flitted across
his dying brain, at any rate he glanced at the refractory arm,
at Pierre's terror-stricken face, and again at the arm, and on
his face a feeble, piteous smile appeared, quite out of keeping
with his features, that seemed to deride his own helplessness.
At sight of this smile Pierre felt an unexpected quivering in
his breast and a tickling in his nose, and tears dimmed his eyes.
The sick man was turned on to his side with his face to the wall.
He sighed.
"He is dozing," said Anna Mikhaylovna, observing
that one of the princesses was coming to take her turn at watching.
"Let us go."
Pierre went out.
|
