บทที่ บทที่ 23 · 第23章

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 Bezúkhov, 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 Mikháylovna, with a meek,

sorrowful, and all-forgiving expression on her face, stood by the door

near the strange lady. Prince Vasíli 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 Mikháylovna, 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 Mikháylovna 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 Vasíli

left the chair on which he had been leaning, and—with an 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 Vasíli 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 Mikháylovna’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 Mikháylovna, 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 Mikháylovna 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

Mikháylovna 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 Mikháylovna to see what he was to

do next. Anna Mikháylovna with her eyes indicated a chair that stood

beside the bed. Pierre obediently sat down, his eyes asking if he were

doing right. Anna Mikháylovna nodded approvingly. Again Pierre fell

into the naïvely 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 Mikháylovna 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

Mikháylovna 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 Vasíli 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 Mikháylovna, observing that one of the

princesses was coming to take her turn at watching. “Let us go.”

Pierre went out.