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Prince Andrew was to leave next evening. The old prince, not
altering his routine, retired as usual after dinner. The little
princess was in her sister-in-law's room. Prince Andrew in a traveling
coat without epaulettes had been packing with his valet in the
rooms assigned to him. After inspecting the carriage himself and
seeing the trunks put in, he ordered the horses to be harnessed.
Only those things he always kept with him remained in his room;
a small box, a large canteen fitted with silver plate, two Turkish
pistols and a saber- a present from his father who had brought
it from the siege of Ochakov. All these traveling effects of Prince
Andrew's were in very good order: new, clean, and in cloth covers
carefully tied with tapes.
When starting on a journey or changing their mode of life,
men capable of reflection are generally in a serious frame of
mind. At such moments one reviews the past and plans for the future.
Prince Andrew's face looked very thoughtful and tender. With his
hands behind him he paced briskly from corner to corner of the
room, looking straight before him and thoughtfully shaking his
head. Did he fear going to the war, or was he sad at leaving his
wife?- perhaps both, but evidently he did not wish to be seen
in that mood, for hearing footsteps in the passage he hurriedly
unclasped his hands, stopped at a table as if tying the cover
of the small box, and assumed his usual tranquil and impenetrable
expression. It was the heavy tread of Princess Mary that he heard.
"I hear you have given orders to harness," she cried,
panting (she had apparently been running), "and I did so
wish to have another talk with you alone! God knows how long we
may again be parted. You are not angry with me for coming? You
have changed so, Andrusha," she added, as if to explain such
a question.
She smiled as she uttered his pet name, "Andrusha."
It was obviously strange to her to think that this stern handsome
man should be Andrusha- the slender mischievous boy who had been
her playfellow in childhood.
"And where is Lise?" he asked, answering her question
only by a smile.
"She was so tired that she has fallen asleep on the sofa
in my room. Oh, Andrew! What a treasure of a wife you have,"
said she, sitting down on the sofa, facing her brother. "She
is quite a child: such a dear, merry child. I have grown so fond
of her."
Prince Andrew was silent, but the princess noticed the ironical
and contemptuous look that showed itself on his face.
"One must be indulgent to little weaknesses; who is free
from them, Andrew? Don't forget that she has grown up and been
educated in society, and so her position now is not a rosy one.
We should enter into everyone's situation. Tout comprendre, c'est
tout pardonner.* Think it must be for her, poor thing, after what
she has been used to, to be parted from her husband and be left
alone the country, in her condition! It's very hard."
*To understand all is to forgive all.
Prince Andrew smiled as he looked at his sister, as we smile
at those we think we thoroughly understand.
"You live in the country and don't think the life terrible,"
he replied.
"I... that's different. Why speak of me? I don't want
any other life, and can't, for I know no other. But think, Andrew:
for a young society woman to be buried in the country during the
best years of her life, all alone- for Papa is always busy, and
I... well, you know what poor resources I have for entertaining
a woman used to the best society. There is only Mademoiselle Bourienne...."
"I don't like your Mademoiselle Bourienne at all,"
said Prince Andrew.
"No? She is very nice and kind and, above all, she's
much to be pitied. She has no one, no one. To tell the truth,
I don't need her, and she's even in my way. You know I always
was a savage, and now am even more so. I like being alone....
Father likes her very much. She and Michael Ivanovich are the
two people to whom he is always gentle and kind, because he has
been a benefactor to them both. As Sterne says: 'We don't love
people so much for the good they have done us, as for the good
we have done them.' Father took her when she was homeless after
losing her own father. She is very good-natured, and my father
likes her way of reading. She reads to him in the evenings and
reads splendidly."
"To be quite frank, Mary, I expect Father's character
sometimes makes things trying for you, doesn't it?" Prince
Andrew asked suddenly.
Princess Mary was first surprised and then aghast at this
question.
"For me? For me?... Trying for me!..." said she.
"He always was rather harsh; and now I should think he's
getting very trying," said Prince Andrew, apparently speaking
lightly of their father in order to puzzle or test his sister.
"You are good in every way, Andrew, but you have a kind
of intellectual pride," said the princess, following the
train of her own thoughts rather than the trend of the conversation-
"and that's a great sin. How can one judge Father? But even
if one might, what feeling except veneration could such a man
as my father evoke? And I am so contented and happy with him.
I only wish you were all as happy as I am."
Her brother shook his head incredulously.
"The only thing that is hard for me... I will tell you
the truth, Andrew... is Father's way of treating religious subjects.
I don't understand how a man of his immense intellect can fail
to see what is as clear as day, and can go so far astray. That
is the only thing that makes me unhappy. But even in this I can
see lately a shade of improvement. His satire has been less bitter
of late, and there was a monk he received and had a long talk
with."
"Ah! my dear, I am afraid you and your monk are wasting
your powder," said Prince Andrew banteringly yet tenderly.
"Ah! mon ami, I only pray, and hope that God will hear
me. Andrew..." she said timidly after a moment's silence,
"I have a great favor to ask of you."
"What is it, dear?"
"No- promise that you will not refuse! It will give you
no trouble and is nothing unworthy of you, but it will comfort
me. Promise, Andrusha!..." said she, putting her hand in
her reticule but not yet taking out what she was holding inside
it, as if what she held were the subject of her request and must
not be shown before the request was granted.
She looked timidly at her brother.
"Even if it were a great deal of trouble..." answered
Prince Andrew, as if guessing what it was about.
"Think what you please! I know you are just like Father.
Think as you please, but do this for my sake! Please do! Father's
father, our grandfather, wore it in all his wars." (She still
did not take out what she was holding in her reticule.) "So
you promise?"
"Of course. What is it?"
"Andrew, I bless you with this icon and you must promise
me you will never take it off. Do you promise?"
"If it does not weigh a hundredweight and won't break
my neck... To please you..." said Prince Andrew. But immediately,
noticing the pained expression his joke had brought to his sister's
face, he repented and added: "I am glad; really, dear, I
am very glad."
"Against your will He will save and have mercy on you
and bring you to Himself, for in Him alone is truth and peace,"
said she in a voice trembling with emotion, solemnly holding up
in both hands before her brother a small, oval, antique, dark-faced
icon of the Saviour in a gold setting, on a finely wrought silver
chain.
She crossed herself, kissed the icon, and handed it to Andrew.
"Please, Andrew, for my sake!..."
Rays of gentle light shone from her large, timid eyes. Those
eyes lit up the whole of her thin, sickly face and made it beautiful.
Her brother would have taken the icon, but she stopped him. Andrew
understood, crossed himself and kissed the icon. There was a look
of tenderness, for he was touched, but also a gleam of irony on
his face.
"Thank you, my dear." She kissed him on the forehead
and sat down again on the sofa. They were silent for a while.
"As I was saying to you, Andrew, be kind and generous
as you always used to be. Don't judge Lise harshly," she
began. "She is so sweet, so good-natured, and her position
now is a very hard one."
"I do not think I have complained of my wife to you,
Masha, or blamed her. Why do you say all this to me?"
Red patches appeared on Princess Mary's face and she was silent
as if she felt guilty.
"I have said nothing to you, but you have already been
talked to. And I am sorry for that," he went on.
The patches grew deeper on her forehead, neck, and cheeks.
She tried to say something but could not. Her brother had guessed
right: the little princess had been crying after dinner and had
spoken of her forebodings about her confinement, and how she dreaded
it, and had complained of her fate, her father-in-law, and her
husband. After crying she had fallen asleep. Prince Andrew felt
sorry for his sister.
"Know this, Masha: I can't reproach, have not reproached,
and never shall reproach my wife with anything, and I cannot reproach
myself with anything in regard to her; and that always will be
so in whatever circumstances I may be placed. But if you want
to know the truth... if you want to know whether I am happy? No!
Is she happy? No! But why this is so I don't know..."
As he said this he rose, went to his sister, and, stooping,
kissed her forehead. His fine eyes lit up with a thoughtful, kindly,
and unaccustomed brightness, but he was looking not at his sister
but over her head toward the darkness of the open doorway.
"Let us go to her, I must say good-by. Or- go and wake
and I'll come in a moment. Petrushka!" he called to his valet:
"Come here, take these away. Put this on the seat and this
to the right."
Princess Mary rose and moved to the door, then stopped and
said: "Andrew, if you had faith you would have turned to
God and asked Him to give you the love you do not feel, and your
prayer would have been answered."
"Well, may be!" said Prince Andrew. "Go, Masha;
I'll come immediately."
On the way to his sister's room, in the passage which connected
one wing with the other, Prince Andrew met Mademoiselle Bourienne
smiling sweetly. It was the third time that day that, with an
ecstatic and artless smile, she had met him in secluded passages.
"Oh! I thought you were in your room," she said,
for some reason blushing and dropping her eyes.
Prince Andrew looked sternly at her and an expression of anger
suddenly came over his face. He said nothing to her but looked
at her forehead and hair, without looking at her eyes, with such
contempt that the Frenchwoman blushed and went away without a
word. When he reached his sister's room his wife was already awake
and her merry voice, hurrying one word after another, came through
the open door. She was speaking as usual in French, and as if
after long self-restraint she wished to make up for lost time.
"No, but imagine the old Countess Zubova, with false
curls and her mouth full of false teeth, as if she were trying
to cheat old age.... Ha, ha, ha! Mary!"
This very sentence about Countess Zubova and this same laugh
Prince Andrew had already heard from his wife in the presence
of others some five times. He entered the room softly. The little
princess, plump and rosy, was sitting in an easy chair with her
work in her hands, talking incessantly, repeating Petersburg reminiscences
and even phrases. Prince Andrew came up, stroked her hair, and
asked if she felt rested after their journey. She answered him
and continued her chatter.
The coach with six horses was waiting at the porch. It was
an autumn night, so dark that the coachman could not see the carriage
pole. Servants with lanterns were bustling about in the porch.
The immense house was brilliant with lights shining through its
lofty windows. The domestic serfs were crowding in the hall, waiting
to bid good-by to the young prince. The members of the household
were all gathered in the reception hall: Michael Ivanovich, Mademoiselle
Bourienne, Princess Mary, and the little princess. Prince Andrew
had been called to his father's study as the latter wished to
say good-by to him alone. All were waiting for them to come out.
When Prince Andrew entered the study the old man in his old-age
spectacles and white dressing gown, in which he received no one
but his son, sat at the table writing. He glanced round.
"Going?" And he went on writing.
"I've come to say good-by."
"Kiss me here," and he touched his cheek: "Thanks,
thanks!"
"What do you thank me for?"
"For not dilly-dallying and not hanging to a woman's
apron strings. The Service before everything. Thanks, thanks!"
And he went on writing, so that his quill spluttered and squeaked.
"If you have anything to say, say it. These two things can
be done together," he added.
"About my wife... I am ashamed as it is to leave her
on your hands..."
"Why talk nonsense? Say what you want."
"When her confinement is due, send to Moscow for an accoucheur....
Let him be here...."
The old prince stopped writing and, as if not understanding,
fixed his stern eyes on his son.
"I know that no one can help if nature does not do her
work," said Prince Andrew, evidently confused. "I know
that out of a million cases only one goes wrong, but it is her
fancy and mine. They have been telling her things. She has had
a dream and is frightened."
"Hm... Hm..." muttered the old prince to himself,
finishing what he was writing. "I'll do it."
He signed with a flourish and suddenly turning to his son
began to laugh.
"It's a bad business, eh?"
"What is bad, Father?"
"The wife!" said the old prince, briefly and significantly.
"I don't understand!" said Prince Andrew.
"No, it can't be helped, lad," said the prince.
"They're all like that; one can't unmarry. Don't be afraid;
I won't tell anyone, but you know it yourself."
He seized his son by the hand with small bony fingers, shook
it, looked straight into his son's face with keen eyes which seemed
to see through him, and again laughed his frigid laugh.
The son sighed, thus admitting that his father had understood
him. The old man continued to fold and seal his letter, snatching
up and throwing down the wax, the seal, and the paper, with his
accustomed rapidity.
"What's to be done? She's pretty! I will do everything.
Make your mind easy," said he in abrupt sentences while sealing
his letter.
Andrew did not speak; he was both pleased and displeased that
his father understood him. The old man got up and gave the letter
to his son.
"Listen!" said he; "don't worry about your
wife: what can be done shall be. Now listen! Give this letter
to Michael Ilarionovich.* I have written that he should make use
of you in proper places and not keep you long as an adjutant:
a bad position! Tell him I remember and like him. Write and tell
me how he receives you. If he is all right- serve him. Nicholas
Bolkonski's son need not serve under anyone if he is in disfavor.
Now come here."
*Kutuzov.
He spoke so rapidly that he did not finish half his words,
but his son was accustomed to understand him. He led him to the
desk, raised the lid, drew out a drawer, and took out an exercise
book filled with his bold, tall, close handwriting.
"I shall probably die before you. So remember, these
are my memoirs; hand them to the Emperor after my death. Now here
is a Lombard bond and a letter; it is a premium for the man who
writes a history of Suvorov's wars. Send it to the Academy. Here
are some jottings for you to read when I am gone. You will find
them useful."
Andrew did not tell his father that he would no doubt live
a long time yet. He felt that he must not say it.
"I will do it all, Father," he said.
"Well, now, good-by!" He gave his son his hand to
kiss, and embraced him. "Remember this, Prince Andrew, if
they kill you it will hurt me, your old father..." he paused
unexpectedly, and then in a querulous voice suddenly shrieked:
"but if I hear that you have not behaved like a son of Nicholas
Bolkonski, I shall be ashamed!"
"You need not have said that to me, Father," said
the son with a smile.
The old man was silent.
"I also wanted to ask you," continued Prince Andrew,
"if I'm killed and if I have a son, do not let him be taken
away from you- as I said yesterday... let him grow up with you....
Please."
"Not let the wife have him?" said the old man, and
laughed.
They stood silent, facing one another. The old man's sharp
eyes were fixed straight on his son's. Something twitched in the
lower part of the old prince's face.
"We've said good-by. Go!" he suddenly shouted in
a loud, angry voice, opening his door.
"What is it? What?" asked both princesses when they
saw for a moment at the door Prince Andrew and the figure of the
old man in a white dressing gown, spectacled and wigless, shouting
in an angry voice.
Prince Andrew sighed and made no reply.
"Well!" he said, turning to his wife.
And this "Well!" sounded coldly ironic, as if he
were saying,: "Now go through your performance."
"Andrew, already!" said the little princess, turning
pale and looking with dismay at her husband.
He embraced her. She screamed and fell unconscious on his
shoulder.
He cautiously released the shoulder she leaned on, looked
into her face, and carefully placed her in an easy chair.
"Adieu, Mary," said he gently to his sister, taking
her by the hand and kissing her, and then he left the room with
rapid steps.
The little princess lay in the armchair, Mademoiselle Bourienne
chafing her temples. Princess Mary, supporting her sister-in-law,
still looked with her beautiful eyes full of tears at the door
through which Prince Andrew had gone and made the sign of the
cross in his direction. From the study, like pistol shots, came
the frequent sound of the old man angrily blowing his nose. Hardly
had Prince Andrew gone when the study door opened quickly and
the stern figure of the old man in the white dressing gown looked
out.
"Gone? That's all right!" said he; and looking angrily
at the unconscious little princess, he shook his head reprovingly
and slammed the door.
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