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Princess Mary was not in Moscow and out of danger as Prince
Andrew supposed.
After the return of Alpatych from Smolensk the old prince
suddenly seemed to awake as from a dream. He ordered the militiamen
to be called up from the villages and armed, and wrote a letter
to the commander in chief informing him that he had resolved to
remain at Bald Hills to the last extremity and to defend it, leaving
to the commander in chief's discretion to take measures or not
for the defense of Bald Hills, where one of Russia's oldest generals
would be captured or killed, and he announced to his household
that he would remain at Bald Hills.
But while himself remaining, he gave instructions for the
departure of the princess and Dessalles with the little prince
to Bogucharovo and thence to Moscow. Princess Mary, alarmed by
her father's feverish and sleepless activity after his previous
apathy, could not bring herself to leave him alone and for the
first time in her life ventured to disobey him. She refused to
go away and her father's fury broke over her in a terrible storm.
He repeated every injustice he had ever inflicted on her. Trying
to convict her, he told her she had worn him out, had caused his
quarrel with his son, had harbored nasty suspicions of him, making
it the object of her life to poison his existence, and he drove
her from his study telling her that if she did not go away it
was all the same to him. He declared that he did not wish to remember
her existence and warned her not to dare to let him see her. The
fact that he did not, as she had feared, order her to be carried
away by force but only told her not to let him see her cheered
Princess Mary. She knew it was a proof that in the depth of his
soul he was glad she was remaining at home and had not gone away.
The morning after little Nicholas had left, the old prince
donned his full uniform and prepared to visit the commander in
chief. His caleche was already at the door. Princess Mary saw
him walk out of the house in his uniform wearing all his orders
and go down the garden to review his armed peasants and domestic
serfs. She sat by the window listening to his voice which reached
her from the garden. Suddenly several men came running up the
avenue with frightened faces.
Princess Mary ran out to the porch, down the flower-bordered
path, and into the avenue. A large crowd of militiamen and domestics
were moving toward her, and in their midst several men were supporting
by the armpits and dragging along a little old man in a uniform
and decorations. She ran up to him and, in the play of the sunlight
that fell in small round spots through the shade of the lime-tree
avenue, could not be sure what change there was in his face. All
she could see was that his former stern and determined expression
had altered to one of timidity and submission. On seeing his daughter
he moved his helpless lips and made a hoarse sound. It was impossible
to make out what he wanted. He was lifted up, carried to his study,
and laid on the very couch he had so feared of late.
The doctor, who was fetched that same night, bled him and
said that the prince had had seizure a paralyzing his right side.
It was becoming more and more dangerous to remain at Bald
Hills, and next day they moved the prince to Bogucharovo, the
doctor accompanying him.
By the time they reached Bogucharovo, Dessalles and the little
prince had already left for Moscow.
For three weeks the old prince lay stricken by paralysis in
the new house Prince Andrew had built at Bogucharovo, ever in
the same state, getting neither better nor worse. He was unconscious
and lay like a distorted corpse. He muttered unceasingly, his
eyebrows and lips twitching, and it was impossible to tell whether
he understood what was going on around him or not. One thing was
certain- that he was suffering and wished to say something. But
what it was, no one could tell: it might be some caprice of a
sick and half-crazy man, or it might relate to public affairs,
or possibly to family concerns.
The doctor said this restlessness did not mean anything and
was due to physical causes; but Princess Mary thought he wished
to tell her something, and the fact that her presence always increased
his restlessness confirmed her opinion.
He was evidently suffering both physically and mentally. There
was no hope of recovery. It was impossible for him to travel,
it would not do to let him die on the road. "Would it not
be better if the end did come, the very end?" Princess Mary
sometimes thought. Night and day, hardly sleeping at all, she
watched him and, terrible to say, often watched him not with hope
of finding signs of improvement but wishing to find symptoms of
the approach of the end.
Strange as it was to her to acknowledge this feeling in herself,
yet there it was. And what seemed still more terrible to her was
that since her father's illness began (perhaps even sooner, when
she stayed with him expecting something to happen), all the personal
desires and hopes that had been forgotten or sleeping within her
had awakened. Thoughts that had not entered her mind for years-
thoughts of a life free from the fear of her father, and even
the possibility of love and of family happiness- floated continually
in her imagination like temptations of the devil. Thrust them
aside as she would, questions continually recurred to her as to
how she would order her life now, after that. These were temptations
of the devil and Princess Mary knew it. She knew that the sole
weapon against him was prayer, and she tried to pray. She assumed
an attitude of prayer, looked at the icons, repeated the words
of a prayer, but she could not pray. She felt that a different
world had now taken possession of her- the life of a world of
strenuous and free activity, quite opposed to the spiritual world
in which till now she had been confined and in which her greatest
comfort had been prayer. She could not pray, could not weep, and
worldly cares took possession of her.
It was becoming dangerous to remain in Bogucharovo. News of
the approach of the French came from all sides, and in one village,
ten miles from Bogucharovo, a homestead had been looted by French
marauders.
The doctor insisted on the necessity of moving the prince;
the provincial Marshal of the Nobility sent an official to Princess
Mary to persuade her to get away as quickly as possible, and the
head of the rural police having come to Bogucharovo urged the
same thing, saying that the French were only some twenty-five
miles away, that French proclamations were circulating in the
villages, and that if the princess did not take her father away
before the fifteenth, he could not answer for the consequences.
The princess decided to leave on the fifteenth. The cares
of preparation and giving orders, for which everyone came to her,
occupied her all day. She spent the night of the fourteenth as
usual, without undressing, in the room next to the one where the
prince lay. Several times, waking up, she heard his groans and
muttering, the creak of his bed, and the steps of Tikhon and the
doctor when they turned him over. Several times she listened at
the door, and it seemed to her that his mutterings were louder
than usual and that they turned him over oftener. She could not
sleep and several times went to the door and listened, wishing
to enter but not deciding to do so. Though he did not speak, Princess
Mary saw and knew how unpleasant every sign of anxiety on his
account was to him. She had noticed with what dissatisfaction
he turned from the look she sometimes involuntarily fixed on him.
She knew that her going in during the night at an unusual hour
would irritate him.
But never had she felt so grieved for him or so much afraid
of losing him. She recalled all her life with him and in every
word and act of his found an expression of his love of her. Occasionally
amid these memories temptations of the devil would surge into
her imagination: thoughts of how things would be after his death,
and how her new, liberated life would be ordered. But she drove
these thoughts away with disgust. Toward morning he became quiet
and she fell asleep.
She woke late. That sincerity which often comes with waking
showed her clearly what chiefly concerned her about her father's
illness. On waking she listened to what was going on behind the
door and, hearing him groan, said to herself with a sigh that
things were still the same.
"But what could have happened? What did I want? I want
his death!" she cried with a feeling of loathing for herself.
She washed, dressed, said her prayers, and went out to the
porch. In front of it stood carriages without horses and things
were being packed into the vehicles.
It was a warm, gray morning. Princess Mary stopped at the
porch, still horrified by her spiritual baseness and trying to
arrange her thoughts before going to her father. The doctor came
downstairs and went out to her.
"He is a little better today," said he. "I
was looking for you. One can make out something of what he is
saying. His head is clearer. Come in, he is asking for you..."
Princess Mary's heart beat so violently at this news that
she grew pale and leaned against the wall to keep from falling.
To see him, talk to him, feel his eyes on her now that her whole
soul was overflowing with those dreadful, wicked temptations,
was a torment of joy and terror.
"Come," said the doctor.
Princess Mary entered her father's room and went up to his
bed. He was lying on his back propped up high, and his small bony
hands with their knotted purple veins were lying on the quilt;
his left eye gazed straight before him, his right eye was awry,
and his brows and lips motionless. He seemed altogether so thin,
small, and pathetic. His face seemed to have shriveled or melted;
his features had grown smaller. Princess Mary went up and kissed
his hand. His left hand pressed hers so that she understood that
he had long been waiting for her to come. He twitched her hand,
and his brows and lips quivered angrily.
She looked at him in dismay trying to guess what he wanted
of her. When she changed her position so that his left eye could
see her face he calmed down, not taking his eyes off her for some
seconds. Then his lips and tongue moved, sounds came, and he began
to speak, gazing timidly and imploringly at her, evidently afraid
that she might not understand.
Straining all her faculties Princess Mary looked at him. The
comic efforts with which he moved his tongue made her drop her
eyes and with difficulty repress the sobs that rose to her throat.
He said something, repeating the same words several times. She
could not understand them, but tried to guess what he was saying
and inquiringly repeated the words he uttered.
"Mmm...ar...ate...ate..." he repeated several times.
It was quite impossible to understand these sounds. The doctor
thought he had guessed them, and inquiringly repeated: "Mary,
are you afraid?" The prince shook his head, again repeated
the same sounds.
"My mind, my mind aches?" questioned Princess Mary.
He made a mumbling sound in confirmation of this, took her
hand, and began pressing it to different parts of his breast as
if trying to find the right place for it.
"Always thoughts... about you... thoughts..." he
then uttered much more clearly than he had done before, now that
he was sure of being understood.
Princess Mary pressed her head against his hand, trying to
hide her sobs and tears.
He moved his hand over her hair.
"I have been calling you all night..." he brought
out.
"If only I had known..." she said through her tears.
"I was afraid to come in."
He pressed her hand.
"Weren't you asleep?"
"No, I did not sleep," said Princess Mary, shaking
her head.
Unconsciously imitating her father, she now tried to express
herself as he did, as much as possible by signs, and her tongue
too seemed to move with difficulty.
"Dear one... Dearest..." Princess Mary could not
quite make out what he had said, but from his look it was clear
that he had uttered a tender caressing word such as he had never
used to her before. "Why didn't you come in?"
"And I was wishing for his death!" thought Princess
Mary.
He was silent awhile.
"Thank you... daughter dear!... for all, for all... forgive!...
thank you!... forgive!... thank you!..." and tears began
to flow from his eyes. "Call Andrew!" he said suddenly,
and a childish, timid expression of doubt showed itself on his
face as he spoke.
He himself seemed aware that his demand was meaningless. So
at least it seemed to Princess Mary.
"I have a letter from him," she replied.
He glanced at her with timid surprise.
"Where is he?"
"He's with the army, Father, at Smolensk."
He closed his eyes and remained silent a long time. Then as
if in answer to his doubts and to confirm the fact that now he
understood and remembered everything, he nodded his head and reopened
his eyes.
"Yes," he said, softly and distinctly. "Russia
has perished. They've destroyed her."
And he began to sob, and again tears flowed from his eyes.
Princess Mary could no longer restrain herself and wept while
she gazed at his face.
Again he closed his eyes. His sobs ceased, he pointed to his
eyes, and Tikhon, understanding him, wiped away the tears.
Then he again opened his eyes and said something none of them
could understand for a long time, till at last Tikhon understood
and repeated it. Princess Mary had sought the meaning of his words
in the mood in which he had just been speaking. She thought he
was speaking of Russia, or Prince Andrew, of herself, of his grandson,
or of his own death, and so she could not guess his words.
"Put on your white dress. I like it," was what he
said.
Having understood this Princess Mary sobbed still louder,
and the doctor taking her arm led her out to the veranda, soothing
her and trying to persuade her to prepare for her journey. When
she had left the room the prince again began speaking about his
son, about the war, and about the Emperor, angrily twitching his
brows and raising his hoarse voice, and then he had a second and
final stroke.
Princess Mary stayed on the veranda. The day had cleared,
it was hot and sunny. She could understand nothing, think of nothing
and feel nothing, except passionate love for her father, love
such as she thought she had never felt till that moment. She ran
out sobbing into the garden and as far as the pond, along the
avenues of young lime trees Prince Andrew had planted.
"Yes... I... I... I wished for his death! Yes, I wanted
it to end quicker.... I wished to be at peace.... And what will
become of me? What use will peace be when he is no longer here?"
Princess Mary murmured, pacing the garden with hurried steps and
pressing her hands to her bosom which heaved with convulsive sobs.
When she had completed the tour of the garden, which brought
her again to the house, she saw Mademoiselle Bourienne- who had
remained at Bogucharovo and did not wish to leave it- coming toward
her with a stranger. This was the Marshal of the Nobility of the
district, who had come personally to point out to the princess
the necessity for her prompt departure. Princess Mary listened
without understanding him; she led him to the house, offered him
lunch, and sat down with him. Then, excusing herself, she went
to the door of the old prince's room. The doctor came out with
an agitated face and said she could not enter.
"Go away, Princess! Go away... go away!"
She returned to the garden and sat down on the grass at the
foot of the slope by the pond, where no one could see her. She
did not know how long she had been there when she was aroused
by the sound of a woman's footsteps running along the path. She
rose and saw Dunyasha her maid, who was evidently looking for
her, and who stopped suddenly as if in alarm on seeing her mistress.
"Please come, Princess... The Prince," said Dunyasha
in a breaking voice.
"Immediately, I'm coming, I'm coming!" replied the
princess hurriedly, not giving Dunyasha time to finish what she
was saying, and trying to avoid seeing the girl she ran toward
the house.
"Princess, it's God's will! You must be prepared for
everything," said the Marshal, meeting her at the house door.
"Let me alone; it's not true!" she cried angrily
to him.
The doctor tried to stop her. She pushed him aside and ran
to her father's door. "Why are these people with frightened
faces stopping me? I don't want any of them! And what are they
doing here?" she thought. She opened the door and the bright
daylight in that previously darkened room startled her. In the
room were her nurse and other women. They all drew back from the
bed, making way for her. He was still lying on the bed as before,
but the stern expression of his quiet face made Princess Mary
stop short on the threshold.
"No, he's not dead- it's impossible!" she told herself
and approached him, and repressing the terror that seized her,
she pressed her lips to his cheek. But she stepped back immediately.
All the force of the tenderness she had been feeling for him vanished
instantly and was replaced by a feeling of horror at what lay
there before her. "No, he is no more! He is not, but here
where he was is something unfamiliar and hostile, some dreadful,
terrifying, and repellent mystery!" And hiding her face in
her hands, Princess Mary sank into the arms of the doctor, who
held her up.
In the presence of Tikhon and the doctor the women washed
what had been the prince, tied his head up with a handkerchief
that the mouth should not stiffen while open, and with another
handkerchief tied together the legs that were already spreading
apart. Then they dressed him in uniform with his decorations and
placed his shriveled little body on a table. Heaven only knows
who arranged all this and when, but it all got done as if of its
own accord. Toward night candles were burning round his coffin,
a pall was spread over it, the floor was strewn with sprays of
juniper, a printed band was tucked in under his shriveled head,
and in a corner of the room sat a chanter reading the psalms.
Just as horses shy and snort and gather about a dead horse,
so the inmates of the house and strangers crowded into the drawing
room round the coffin- the Marshal, the village Elder, peasant
women- and all with fixed and frightened eyes, crossing themselves,
bowed and kissed the old prince's cold and stiffened hand.
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