by Leo Tolstoy
'Has he had his medicine?'
'Yes.'
The doctor consulted his watch.
'Take a glass of boiled water and add a pinch of cream of tartar.' (His delicate fingers showed her what a pinch meant.)
'Zere 'as neffer bin a case,' said a German doctor to an adjutant in his broken Russian, 'zat anypody liffed on after ze t'ird sdroke.'
'And didn't he look after himself!' said the adjutant. 'And who's going to inherit all this?' he added in a whisper.
'Ze customers vill come,' smiled the German, in reply.
The door creaked, and everyone turned. It was the second princess, who had made up the drink prescribed by the doctor and was now taking it in. The German doctor went over to Lorrain.
'Can he hold out till tomorrow morning?' asked the German, speaking French with a ghastly accent.
Lorrain pursed his lips and wagged a stern finger in front of his nose to say no.
'During the night, at the latest,' he said softly, with a courteous smile of smug confidence in his unique ability to interpret and transmit the precise condition of his patient so clearly. Then he stood up and walked away.
Meanwhile Prince Vasily had opened the door of the princess's room, which was in semi-darkness with only two small lamps burning before the icons. There was a pleasing scent of incense and flowers. The room was filled with small pieces of furniture, tiny knick-knacks, bookcases and tables. White covers on a high feather-bed were just visible behind a screen. A little dog yapped.
'Is that you, Cousin?'
She got up and smoothed her hair, which was always, even now, so extraordinarily smooth that it seemed to have been made out of one piece along with her head and given a coat of gloss.
'Has anything happened?' she asked. 'You startled me.'
'No, nothing has changed. I've just dropped in for a little chat, Katishe, about business,' said the prince, sinking wearily into the low chair from which she had just got up. 'Oh, it's quite warm in here,' he said. 'Come and sit down. Let's talk.'
'I was just wondering whether anything had happened,' said the princess, and with that perpetually stony look on her prim face she sat down opposite the prince, ready to listen. 'I have been trying to get some sleep, Cousin, but I can't.'
'Well now, my dear,' said Prince Vasily, taking the princess's hand, and pressing it downwards as he often did. This little phrase clearly touched on things that both of them knew but neither spoke of.
The princess, with her spare, rigid body, too long for her legs, looked straight at the prince with no sign of emotion in her prominent grey eyes. She shook her head and looked round at the icons with a sigh. This movement might have been interpreted as an expression of sorrow and devotion, or perhaps one of weariness and the hope for a speedy release. Prince Vasily opted for weariness.
'Do you imagine it's any easier for me?' he said. 'I'm as worn out as a post-horse. But I must speak to you, Katishe. It's something serious.'
Prince Vasily broke off, and his cheeks began to twitch nervously, first on one side, then on the other, giving his face an unpleasant look the like of which was never seen when he was in a drawing-room. His eyes, too, were different; they either stared out with a kind of crude humour in them or they darted about furtively.
The princess held her lap dog with her thin, dry hands, staring closely at Prince Vasily, and it was soon obvious that she was not going break the silence, if she had to sit there till morning.
'Well, it's like this, my dear princess and cousin, Katerina Semyonovna,' said Prince Vasily, clearly struggling to continue. 'At times like this, one must think of everything. We must think about the future - about you. I love all of you as I love my own children. You know that.' The princess looked at him with the same fixed, inscrutable gaze.
'But when all's said and done, we have to think of my family too,' continued Prince Vasily, petulantly shoving away a little table while avoiding her eyes. 'You know, Katishe, that you three Mamontov sisters and my wife are the only direct heirs of the count. I know, I know, it is distressing for you to speak and think about such things. I don't find it any easier. But, my dear, I'm over fifty now and I must be ready for anything. Did you know I had sent for Pierre, and that the count pointed to his portrait and asked to see him?'
Prince Vasily looked inquiringly at the princess, but he couldn't work out whether she was absorbing what he had said, or just looking at him.
'Cousin, I pray constantly for one thing only . . .' she replied, 'that God may have mercy on his noble soul as he departs this . . .'
'Yes, yes,' Prince Vasily went on impatiently, wiping his bald head and angrily pulling back the table he had just shoved away, 'but as things stand . . . er, well, the point is this - I'm sure you know that last winter the count made a will which bypassed his direct heirs including us and left all his estate to Pierre.'
'He must have made lots of wills,' the princess said placidly, 'but he couldn't leave everything to Pierre. Pierre is illegitimate.'
'My dear cousin,' he snapped, clutching the table in his growing excitement and hurrying his words, 'what if a letter had been written by the count to the Emperor asking for permission to adopt Pierre as his legitimate son? You must realize that the count's service would mean that his request would be granted.'
The princess smiled, as people do when they think they know more than the person they are talking to.
'I'll go further,' said Prince Vasily, taking her hand. 'That letter has been written, and although it was never sent, the Emperor knows of its existence. The only question is - has it been destroyed or not? If not, when it's . . . all over,' Prince Vasily sighed, giving her a chance to see what he meant by the words 'all over', 'and they go through the count's papers, the will and the letter will be given to the Emperor together, and his request will probably be granted. As the legitimate son, Pierre will get everything.'
'What about our share?' asked the princess with a twisted smile, as if anything could happen, only not that.
'Why, my poor Katishe, it's as clear as daylight. He will then be the sole legal heir to everything, and you won't get a thing. You must surely know, my dear, whether the will and the letter were written, and whether or not they were destroyed. And if by any chance they have been mislaid, then you ought to know where they are and be able to find them, because . . .'
'Now you have gone too far!' the princess interrupted, with a sardonic smile and no change in the expression of her eyes. 'I'm a woman, and you think we're all stupid, but I do know this: an illegitimate son cannot inherit . . . He is a . . . bastard,' she added, the last word in French, as if its use would demonstrate the flaw in his thinking.
'Katishe, you really don't seem to understand! If you're that intelligent, why can't you see that if the count has written to the Emperor asking for recognition of Pierre as legitimate, he won't be Pierre any more, he'll be Count Bezukhov, and he'll inherit everything under the will? And if the will and the letter have not been destroyed, then - apart from the consolation of having done your duty and all the rest of it - you are left with nothing. And that's a fact.'
'I do know the will was made, but I also know that it is invalid. You seem to take me for a complete fool, my dear cousin,' said the princess, with the air of a woman who has come out with something clever and scathing.
'My dear princess, Katerina Semyonovna!' Prince Vasily was losing patience. 'I haven't come here just to annoy you. I'm talking to you as a relative, a good, kind, true relative, about your own interests. I am telling you for the umpteenth time that if that letter to the Emperor and the will made out in Pierre's favour are still among the count's papers, neither you, my dear girl, nor your sisters are heiresses. If you don't believe me, you must believe other people who know about these things. I've just been talking to Dmitry Onufrich' (the family solicitor) 'and he says the same thing.'
A sudden and obvious change now came over the princess's train of thought. Her thin lips paled, though her eyes stayed the same, a
nd when she spoke her voice seemed to come out more thunderously than she was expecting.
'That would be a fine thing,' she said. 'I wanted nothing, and I still want nothing.' She pushed the dog down from her lap and smoothed out the folds of her skirt. 'There's gratitude for you. That's what you get for sacrificing everything,' she said. 'Wonderful! Splendid! I have no need of anything, Prince.'
'Yes, but it's not just you. You have two sisters,' answered Prince Vasily. But the princess was not listening.
'Yes, I've always known, but I had forgotten, that in this house I could never expect anything but unfairness, deceit, jealousy and double-dealing - only ingratitude, the blackest ingratitude . . .'
'Do you or do you not know where that will is?' Prince Vasily insisted, his cheeks twitching more than ever.
'Oh yes, I've been stupid. I've kept faith with people, given them my love and sacrificed everything. But you can't succeed nowadays without being mean and horrible. I know who's been double-dealing.'
The princess was about to stand up, but the prince held her back by the arm. She had the air of someone who has suddenly lost faith in the whole human race. She glared at him malevolently.
'There is still time, my dear. Remember, Katishe, this was an accident, something done in a moment of anger, of illness, and then forgotten. Our duty, my dear, is to correct his mistake, to relieve him in his last moments by not letting him commit this injustice, not letting him die with the thought that he has brought unhappiness to . . .'
'People who have sacrificed everything for him,' the princess responded. She made another effort to get up, but the prince restrained her, ' - a sacrifice he's never been able to appreciate. No, cousin,' she added with a sigh, 'I shall remember that there are no rewards in this world, that in this world there is no honour or justice. In this world you need to be clever and wicked.'
'Well, we shall see. Don't upset yourself. I know your noble heart.'
'No, I have a wicked heart.'
'I know your heart,' repeated the prince. 'I value your friendship, and I would like you to think the same of me. So, don't upset yourself and let's talk sensibly together while there is still time, whether it's a whole day or just an hour. Tell me everything you know about that will. The most important thing is - where is it? You must know. We'll take it to the count and show it to him. He's probably forgotten all about it, and he'll want it destroyed. Please understand that my sole desire is to carry out his wishes religiously. That's what I came here for. I am here only to be of service to him and to you.'
'Oh, I see. Now I know who's doing the double-dealing. Yes, I know,' said the princess.
'You've got it wrong, my dear.'
'It's that Anna Mikhaylovna, your lovely protegee. I wouldn't have her as a housemaid - ghastly, horrible woman.'
'Please, we're wasting time.'
'Don't you talk to me! Last winter she wormed her way in here and told the count so many rotten, terrible things about all of us, especially Sophie - I can't repeat them - that it made the count ill, and for two weeks he refused to see us. I'm sure that was when he wrote that awful, dreadful document, but I thought it didn't matter.'
'There we have it. Why didn't you tell me?'
Instead of replying the princess said, 'It's in that inlaid portfolio that he keeps under his pillow . . . I can see it all now. If I have one sin on my conscience, it is a big one - I loathe that vile woman!' She was a different woman, virtually shrieking. 'And why does she come crawling in here? I'll give her a piece of my mind . . . My time will come!'
CHAPTER 19
While these conversations were taking place in the reception-room and in the princess's room, a carriage was bringing Pierre (who had been sent for) and Anna Mikhaylovna (who had found it necessary to come along too) into the courtyard of Count Bezukhov's house. As the carriage wheels crunched softly over the straw laid down beneath the windows, Anna Mikhaylovna turned consolingly to her companion only to find him asleep in his corner of the carriage. She woke him up. Pierre roused himself and followed Anna Mikhaylovna out of the carriage, and only then turned his mind to the impending visit to his dying father. He noticed that they had not come to the main entrance, but had gone round to the back door. As he got down from the carriage, two men dressed like tradesmen scurried away from the doorway into the shadow of the wall. Pausing for a moment, he could just make out several other similar figures standing in the shadows on both sides of the house. But Anna Mikhaylovna, the servant and the coachman, who must have seen these men, simply ignored them, so Pierre decided all was as it should be and followed her in. Anna Mikhaylovna hurried up the badly lit, narrow stone staircase, calling for Pierre not to lag behind. He couldn't see why he had to visit the count at all, still less why they had to use the back stairs, but Anna Mikhaylovna's confident manner and sense of urgency made him think it must be absolutely necessary. Half-way up the steps they were almost knocked off their feet by some men who came clomping down towards them in big boots, carrying buckets, but who squeezed back against the wall to let Pierre and Anna Mikhaylovna pass by, and didn't seem the least bit surprised to see them there.
'Is this the way to the princess's apartments?' Anna Mikhaylovna asked one of them.
'Yes, madam,' answered a footman in a loud, strong voice, as though anything were now permissible, 'the door on the left.'
'Perhaps the count didn't really ask for me,' said Pierre, as he reached the landing. 'I think I ought to go to my own room.'
Anna Mikhaylovna waited for him to catch up. 'Ah, my friend,' she said, touching his arm just as she had touched her son's arm that morning. 'Believe me, I am suffering as much as you, but be a man.'
'Really, hadn't I better go?' Pierre asked, peering amiably at her over his spectacles.
'Ah, my friend, forget the wrongs that may have been done to you: keep thinking this is your father . . . and perhaps in his death agony,' she sighed. 'I took to you and I've loved you like a son. Trust me, Pierre. I shall not forgot your interests.'
Pierre couldn't understand a word of this, but he sensed even more strongly that all was as it should be, so he meekly followed Anna Mikhaylovna, who was already opening a door into the back-stairs vestibule. In one corner sat one of the princess's old manservants knitting a stocking. Pierre had never been in this part of the house, and hadn't even suspected the existence of these rooms. A maid went past carrying a tray with a decanter on it, and Anna Mikhaylovna (calling her 'my dear' and 'good girl') inquired after the princesses' health, and then took Pierre on down the stone-flagged corridor. The first door on the left led through to the princesses' living quarters. The maid with the decanter was in such a hurry (everything in the house seemed to be done in a hurry just then) that she didn't close the door behind her. Pierre and Anna Mikhaylovna, in passing, happened to glance into the room where the eldest princess and Prince Vasily were in close conversation. Seeing them go by, Prince Vasily fell back in his chair with a gesture of irritation, but the princess leapt to her feet and in sheer desperation slammed the door with all her might and put the bolt on. This action was so out of character for the princess, with her perpetual serenity, and the shock on Prince Vasily's face was so out of tune with his dignity, that Pierre stopped in his tracks and gave a bewildered look at his guide over his spectacles. But Anna Mikhaylovna, showing no surprise, gave a thin smile and sighed, as if to indicate that this was just what she had expected.
'Be a man, my friend. I shall be looking after your interests,' she said in response to his glance and quickened her pace down the corridor.
Pierre still couldn't understand what was going on, and he had even less idea of what was meant by 'looking after his interests', but he did gather one thing - everything was as it should be. The corridor brought them into the half-lit hall just off the count's reception-room. This was one of the cold, magnificently furnished rooms that Pierre normally entered from the main staircase. But even here there was an empty bath in the middle of the room, and water had been
splashed on the carpet. Tiptoeing in their direction came a servant and a deacon with a censer, who ignored them. They went on into the reception-room, which Pierre knew well, with its two Italian windows and a door into the winter garden, its large bust and full-length portrait of Catherine. The same people were still sitting there in almost in the same positions, whispering. Everyone paused and looked round at Anna Mikhaylovna as she came in with her pale, tear-stained face, and at the large, stout figure of Pierre, who trailed along meekly in her wake, hanging his head.
Anna Mikhaylovna's face betrayed her awareness that the moment of crisis had arrived. With her Petersburg businesswoman's air she strode into the room even more assertively than in the morning, keeping Pierre close by her. Since she was bringing the person the dying man wanted to see, she felt sure of a warm welcome for herself. With a rapid glance she took in the whole room, and particularly the presence of the count's spiritual adviser. Without actually bowing, she seemed somehow to shrink into herself before gliding slowly over to the priest and reverently offering herself for a blessing to the two ecclesiastics one after the other.
'Thank God we are in time,' she said to the priest. 'We are family, and we have been terribly worried. This young man is the count's son,' she added more softly. 'This is a dreadful time.'
This said, she went over to the doctor.
'Dear doctor,' she said to him, 'this young man is the count's son . . . Is there any hope at all?'
Without speaking the doctor gave a quick shrug and rolled his eyes upwards. With precisely the same gesture Anna Mikhaylovna shrugged and looked upwards, almost closing her eyes, then with a sigh she walked away from the doctor and went back to Pierre. She addressed him with particular respect and sad solemnity.
'Have faith in his mercy,' she said to him, and indicating a small sofa for him to sit on and wait, she went soundlessly over to the door that all the eyes were on. It opened almost inaudibly, and she slid through as it closed behind her.
Pierre, having decided to obey his guide in everything, went over towards the sofa she had pointed to. The moment Anna Mikhaylovna disappeared he noticed the eyes of everyone in the room turning towards him with something more than curiosity and sympathy. He noticed they were all talking in whispers, looking across at him with something like a mixture of awe and sycophancy. They showed him the kind of respect he had never seen before. A lady quite unknown to him stopped talking to the priest, got to her feet and offered him a seat; an adjutant picked up a glove that Pierre had dropped and handed it back to him; the doctors fell into a polite silence when he passed by and stood aside for him. Pierre's first desire was to sit somewhere else so as not to disturb the lady, to pick up the glove himself and to go round the doctors, who weren't in his way at all, but suddenly he realized that to do so would be improper. He realized that tonight he had become a special person, obliged to endure some ghastly ceremony because it was expected of him, and this meant he was bound to accept favours from everyone. He took the glove from the adjutant in silence, sat down in the lady's place, spreading out his big hands symmetrically on his knees and posing innocently like some Egyptian statue, and then made up his mind that all was as it should be, and that to avoid losing his head and doing stupid things tonight he must not act on his own initiative but bend wholly to the will of those who were guiding him.
