In a couple of minutes Prince Vasily marched into the room, majestic in his coat with the three stars on it, and carrying his head high. He seemed to have grown thinner since the morning. His eyes seemed wider than usual as he glanced round the room and picked out Pierre. He came across and took his hand (something he had never done before), pressing it downwards, as if he wanted to test the strength of its grip.
'Do take courage, my friend. He has asked to see you. That's a good thing . . .'
He made as if to leave, but Pierre felt a need to ask something. 'How is, er . . .' He hesitated, undecided whether it was proper for him to call the dying man 'the count', but embarrassed to call him 'father'.
'He had another stroke half an hour ago. Do take courage, my friend.'
Pierre was in such a confused state of mind that the word 'stroke' made him think of a blow from some heavy body. He looked nonplussed at Prince Vasily, and it was some time before he realized that a stroke is an illness. Prince Vasily said a few words to Lorrain in passing and tiptoed out. He was not very adept at tiptoeing, and his whole body jerked and twitched awkwardly. He was followed by the eldest princess, then by the clergy and the deacons; a few servants also went out. Beyond the door people could be heard moving about, and before long Anna Mikhaylovna ran out, her face still pale but resolute in doing her duty. She touched Pierre on the arm and said, 'God's goodness is inexhaustible. The last rites are beginning. Come with me.'
Pierre went in, and as he trod the soft carpet he noticed that the adjutant and the unknown lady and even one or two servants came trooping in too, as if it was no longer necessary to ask permission to enter that room.
CHAPTER 20
Pierre knew it well, this huge room divided by columns and an arch, the floor covered with Persian carpets. That part of the room beyond the columns, where a high mahogany bedstead with silk hangings stood on one side, and with a huge stand and many icons on the other, was lit up with a bright red light, like a church prepared for evening service. Under the ornamental icon-coverings stood a deep Voltaire armchair,35 and in it Pierre saw, propped up on snow-white, uncrumpled, freshly changed pillows and covered waist-high with a bright green quilt, a familiar and majestic figure, his father, Count Bezukhov, slumping there with the familiar grey lion's mane over his broad brow, and the typically aristocratic lines deeply etched into a handsome, reddish-yellow face. He lay there immediately under the icons with his big thick arms at rest on the quilt. In his right hand, palm down, a wax candle had been thrust between thumb and forefinger and was being held in place by an old servant bending over him from behind. Around the chair hovered the churchmen with their long hair trailing down over splendid glittering vestments. Holding lighted candles in their hands, they were performing their offices with unhurried solemnity. Just behind them stood the two younger princesses, clutching handkerchiefs and intermittently dabbing their eyes, and in front of them the eldest, Katishe, a picture of spiteful determination, kept her eyes glued on the icons, as though declaring to all and sundry that she wouldn't answer for the consequences if she were to look away from them. Anna Mikhaylovna, all meekness, sorrowfulness and forgiveness, stood near the door with the unknown lady. Prince Vasily was standing beside the invalid chair on the other side of the door. He had drawn up a carved, velvet chair and was resting his left hand on its back, holding a candle, and using his right hand to cross himself, rolling his eyes upwards every time he put his fingers to his forehead. His face conveyed a gentle piety and resignation to the will of God. 'If you cannot understand feelings like these,' his face seemed to say, 'that's too bad for you.'
Behind him stood the adjutant, the doctors and the men servants; the men and the women had separated as in church. They all made the sign of the cross in silence, and the only sounds came from the holy reading, the subdued, deep bass chanting, and in moments of silence from some sighing and the shuffling of feet. With a meaningful air which showed she knew what she was doing, Anna Mikhaylovna walked across the room to Pierre and handed him a candle. He lit it, but was then so busy watching the people around him that he used the hand holding the candle to cross himself.
The youngest princess, Sophie, the rosy-cheeked one with the mole and the sense of humour, had her eyes on him. She smiled, hid her face in her handkerchief and kept it there for some time, but soon looked at Pierre again, and gave another giggle. She was obviously incapable of looking at him without giggling, but she couldn't resist looking at him, so she removed the temptation by gliding behind a column. In mid-service the voices of the priests suddenly ceased, and they started whispering to one another. The old servant, who was holding the count's hand, straightened up and turned to the ladies. Anna Mikhaylovna stepped forward, bent down over the sick man and beckoned behind her back to Lorrain. The French doctor had been standing there without a candle, leaning against a column, but with the respectful attitude of a foreigner, who, despite differences of religion, fully acknowledges the solemnity of the ceremony and even approves of it. Now, with the noiseless steps of a man in his prime he strode over to his patient, extended delicate, white fingers to raise a hand from the quilt, turned to one side and began feeling the pulse thoughtfully. They gave the sick man something to drink, a few people around him stirred, then they all went back to their places, and the service continued. During this break in the proceedings Pierre watched Prince Vasily leave his chair-back, and with the same air of authority - he knew what he was doing and it was too bad for anyone who couldn't understand him - he walked straight past the sick man and joined the eldest princess. Together they went off to the far end of the room towards the high bedstead with its silk hangings. They went past the bed and out through a rear door, but before the end of the service they came back in one after the other and resumed their places. Pierre paid no more attention to this development than to any other, having made up his mind once and for all that tonight everything unfolding before him was necessary and inevitable.
The sound of chanting stopped and the priest's voice could be heard reverently congratulating the sick man on having received the mystery. The patient lay there, showing no sign of life or movement. Round about him there was a shuffling and a rustling and voices whispering, Anna Mikhaylovna's louder than the rest. Pierre heard her say, 'Yes, he must be moved across to the bed. It's impossible here . . .'
The sick man was now so hemmed in by doctors, princesses and servants that Pierre could no longer see the reddish-yellow face with the grey mane that he had never for a moment lost sight of during the ceremony, even though there had been other faces to watch as well. From the gingerly manoeuvring of people round the chair he surmised that they were lifting the dying man up and moving him over to the bed.
'Hold on to my arm or you'll drop him,' he heard one of the servants whisper in panic. 'Down a bit . . .', 'Somebody else here . . .', said voices. Laboured breathing, heavy steps and a gathering rush made it seem as if the weight they were carrying was too much for them.
The bearers struggled past, Anna Mikhaylovna among them, and the young man caught a glimpse over their backs and necks of the sick man - the fleshy expanse of his huge chest, the curling grey of his leonine head and the massive shoulders, all hunched up as people grasped him under the armpits. That head, with its broad brow and prominent cheekbones, a handsome, sensual mouth and an aloof expression of high dignity, was not disfigured by the approach of death. It was the same head that Pierre remembered from three months ago, when his father had seen him off to Petersburg, but now it flopped about helplessly to the stumbling steps of the bearers, and the cold, apathetic eyes were focused on nothing.
After a few minutes' commotion around the high bed, the bearers went back to their places. Anna Mikhaylovna touched Pierre's arm and said, 'Come with me.' The two of them approached the bed on which the sick man had been laid in some style perhaps to accord with the mystery that had just been enacted. He was lying with his head propped up on high pillows, his hands symmetrically spread, palms down, on t
he green silk quilt. When Pierre came up, the count looked straight at him, but with a gaze unintelligible to mortal man in its purpose and significance. Either these eyes said nothing at all, but simply stared because they had to look at something, or else they said too much. Pierre stopped, not knowing what he ought to do, and turned to his guide for help. Anna Mikhaylovna looked at him, motioning quickly with her eyes towards the sick man's hand and using her lips to float down a kiss. Pierre got the message, thrusting his neck forward with a great effort to avoid getting caught in the quilt, and kissing the solid, broad hand. Nothing stirred, neither the hand itself, nor any muscle on the count's face. Again Pierre sought guidance from Anna Mikhaylovna as to what to do next. Her eyes indicated an armchair beside the bed. Meekly, Pierre made as if to sit down in it, his eyes still wondering whether he was doing the right thing. Anna Mikhaylovna nodded approvingly. Pierre resumed his innocent, symmetrical pose as an Egyptian statue, obviously ruing the fact that his big clumsy body took up so much space, and doing his utmost mentally to reduce himself in size. He looked at the count. The count still gazed ahead at where Pierre's face had been when he had stood before him. Anna Mikhaylovna's attitude acknowledged all the pathos and significance of this last meeting between father and son. It lasted two minutes, but they seemed like an hour to Pierre. Suddenly a tremor passed over the big muscles and deep lines on the count's face. The shudder intensified and the handsome mouth was contorted (it was now that Pierre realized how near death his father was), and from the contorted mouth came a hoarse wheeze. Anna Mikhaylovna looked anxiously into the sick man's eyes, trying to work out what he wanted; she pointed at Pierre, then at a drink, then in a whispered question she mentioned the name of Prince Vasily, then she pointed to the quilt. The sick man's eyes and face registered some impatience. He made a great effort to look round at the servant, immovable at the head of the bed.
'His Excellency wishes to be turned over on to his other side,' whispered the servant, and he got up to turn the count's heavy body towards the wall. Pierre stood up to help.
While the count was being turned over, one of his arms got caught helplessly behind him and he made a vain attempt to drag it back. Whether or not the count noticed the horror with which Pierre stared at that lifeless arm, or whether some other idea flashed through his dying mind at that instant, he looked down at his unresponsive arm, then at the expression of horror on Pierre's face, then back at his arm, and finally his face produced a smile which jarred with his fine features, a pathetically weak smile that seemed to mock his own helplessness. Suddenly, at the sight of that smile, Pierre felt a shudder in his chest and a prickling in his nose, and his eyes clouded over with tears. They finished turning the sick man towards the wall. He gave a sigh.
'He's having a little doze,' said Anna Mikhaylovna, noticing that one of the princesses was coming to take her turn by the bedside. 'Let's go.'
Pierre went out.
CHAPTER 21
By now there was no one in the reception-room except Prince Vasily and the eldest princess, who were sitting under the portrait of Catherine engaged in a lively conversation. They stopped talking the moment they caught sight of Pierre and his guide, and he thought he saw the princess hide something away as she mumbled, 'I can't abide that woman.'
'Katishe has arranged for tea to be served in the little drawing-room,' said Prince Vasily to Anna Mikhaylovna. 'My poor dear, you must go and take a little something or you won't hold out.'
Saying nothing to Pierre, he simply squeezed his upper arm sympathetically. Pierre and Anna Mikhaylovna went into the little drawing-room.
'There is nothing like a cup of this excellent Russian tea after a sleepless night,' said Lorrain with subdued enthusiasm as he sipped from a delicate Chinese cup without a handle, standing in the little round room at a table with tea-things and some cold supper on it. All of those who had foregathered that night in Count Bezukhov's house had come to fortify themselves at this table. Pierre had fond memories of this little round room with its mirrors and tiny tables. When balls were held in the count's house, Pierre, who was no dancer, had enjoyed sitting in that little room of mirrors, watching the ladies in their ballroom finery decked out with diamonds and pearls on their bare necks, as they passed through and admired themselves in the brightly lit mirrors that multiplied their reflections over and over. Now in the middle of the night in that same room dim light came from two candles, and the tea-things and refreshments were scattered about on one of the little tables, while all sorts of people in ordinary clothes sat there whispering together, showing with every gesture, every word, that no one could ignore what was happening at that moment and what was about to happen in the bedroom. Pierre didn't eat anything even though he was feeling very hungry. He turned to consult his guide, and saw her tiptoeing back to the reception-room where Prince Vasily had stayed behind with the eldest princess. Pierre assumed that this also had to be, so after a moment's hesitation he followed. Anna Mikhaylovna was standing beside the princess, and they were talking in emotional whispers both at the same time.
'Allow me, Princess, to know what is necessary and what is not necessary,' Princess Katishe was saying, her highly emotional state no different from when she had slammed the door of her room.
'But, my dear princess,' Anna Mikhaylovna was saying with gentle persuasiveness, barring the way to the bedroom and not letting her pass, 'don't you think that might be rather too taxing for poor Uncle just now, when he needs to rest? At a time like this to talk of worldly affairs when his soul has been prepared . . .'
Prince Vasily was sitting in a low chair in his customary pose, one leg crossed high above the other. Both of his cheeks were twitching furiously, and when they relaxed they made him look heavy-jowled, but his air was that of a man little interested in the two ladies' discussion.
'No, no, my dear Anna Mikhaylovna, let Katishe do what she wants. You know how the count loves her.'
'I don't know what's in this document,' said Princess Katishe to Prince Vasily, pointing to the inlaid portfolio which she held in her hand. 'What I do know is that the real will is in his desk, and this is a paper that has been forgotten . . .'
She tried to get past Anna Mikhaylovna, who skipped across to bar her way again.
'I know, my dear, sweet princess,' said Anna Mikhaylovna, taking hold of the portfolio, so strongly that it was clear she had no intention of letting go again. 'My dear princess, I beg you, I implore you, spare him. I appeal to you.'
The princess said nothing. The only sound was a scuffling over the portfolio. There could be no doubt that if she had said anything it wouldn't have been complimentary to Anna Mikhaylovna. The latter held on grimly, but her voice still managed to retain its unctuous charm and honeyed gentleness.
'Pierre, come over here, my dear. He is not out of place, I think, in any family council. Don't you agree, Prince?'
'Cousin, say something, please!' Princess Katishe screamed suddenly, so loud that her voice was heard in the drawing-room where it caused some alarm. 'Why don't you say something when a nobody comes in here meddling and making a scene outside a dying man's room? You scheming hussy!' she muttered viciously, and heaved at the portfolio with all her strength, but Anna Mikhaylovna took a few steps forward to keep hold of it and get a better grip.
'Oh dear,' said Prince Vasily, amazed and full of reproach. He got up. 'This is ridiculous. Now, come on. Let go, I tell you.' Princess Katishe did so.
'You too.'
Anna Mikhaylovna did not respond.
'Let go, I tell you. I take full responsibility. I shall go and ask him. I . . . Let that be enough for you.'
'But, Prince,' said Anna Mikhaylovna, 'after that solemn sacrament let him have a moment's peace. Pierre, tell us your opinion,' said she, turning to the young man, who had come up to her and was staring in amazement at her face, malicious beyond all decency, and at Prince Vasily with his twitching cheeks.
'Please remember you will have to answer for the consequences,' sai
d Prince Vasily sternly. 'You don't know what you are doing.'
'Foul woman!' screamed Princess Katishe, suddenly pouncing on Anna Mikhaylovna and wrenching the portfolio from her hands. Prince Vasily bowed his head and spread his hands.
At that moment the door, that dreaded door at which Pierre had gazed so long and which usually opened so softly, was suddenly flung open and banged against the wall, and the second of the three sisters rushed out wringing her hands.
'What are you doing?' she said, in despair. 'He is passing away, and you leave me alone.'
Her sister dropped the portfolio. Anna Mikhaylovna swooped down, grabbed the object of contention and ran into the bedroom. The eldest princess and Prince Vasily pulled themselves together and followed. A few minutes later the eldest princess was the first to re-emerge with a pale, dry face, biting her lip. At the sight of Pierre her face crumbled into uncontrolled hatred.