Chapter Chapter 198 · 第198章

Princess Mary was not in Moscow and out of danger as Prince Andrew

supposed.

After the return of Alpátych from Smolénsk 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 Boguchárovo 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 calèche

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 a seizure paralyzing his right side.

It was becoming more and more dangerous to remain at Bald Hills, and

next day they moved the prince to Boguchárovo, the doctor accompanying

him.

By the time they reached Boguchárovo, 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 Boguchárovo, 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 Boguchárovo. News of the approach

of the French came from all sides, and in one village, ten miles from

Boguchárovo, 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 Boguchárovo 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 Tíkhon 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 Smolénsk.”

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

Tíkhon, 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 Tíkhon 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 Boguchárovo 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 Dunyásha 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 Dunyásha in a breaking

voice.

“Immediately, I’m coming, I’m coming!” replied the princess hurriedly,

not giving Dunyásha 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 Tíkhon 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.