fixed itself upon nothing.
After a few minutes’ bustle beside the high bedstead,
those who had carried the sick man dispersed. Anna
Mikhaylovna 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 Mikhaylovna 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 Mikhaylovna to see what he
was to do next. Anna Mikhaylovna with her eyes indicated a
chair that stood beside the bed. Pierre obediently sat down,
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his eyes asking if he were doing right. Anna Mikhaylovna
nodded approvingly. Again Pierre fell into the naively 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 Mikhaylovna 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
Mikhaylovna 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 Vasili 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
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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 Mikhaylovna, observing that
one of the princesses was coming to take her turn at watching. ‘Let us go.’
Pierre went out.
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Chapter XXIV
There was now no one in the reception room except Prince
Vasili and the eldest princess, who were sitting under the
portrait of Catherine the Great and talking eagerly. As soon
as they saw Pierre and his companion they became silent,
and Pierre thought he saw the princess hide something as
she whispered:
‘I can’t bear the sight of that woman.’
‘Catiche has had tea served in the small drawing room,’
said Prince Vasili to Anna Mikhaylovna. ‘Go and take
something, my poor Anna Mikhaylovna, or you will not
hold out.’
To Pierre he said nothing, merely giving his arm a sympathetic squeeze below the shoulder. Pierre went with Anna
Mikhaylovna into the small drawing room.
‘There is nothing so refreshing after a sleepless night as
a cup of this delicious Russian tea,’ Lorrain was saying with
an air of restrained animation as he stood sipping tea from
a delicate Chinese handleless cup before a table on which
tea and a cold supper were laid in the small circular room.
Around the table all who were at Count Bezukhov’s house
that night had gathered to fortify themselves. Pierre well
remembered this small circular drawing room with its mirrors and little tables. During balls given at the house Pierre,
who did not know how to dance, had liked sitting in this
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room to watch the ladies who, as they passed through in
their ball dresses with diamonds and pearls on their bare
shoulders, looked at themselves in the brilliantly lighted
mirrors which repeated their reflections several times. Now
this same room was dimly lighted by two candles. On one
small table tea things and supper dishes stood in disorder,
and in the middle of the night a motley throng of people
sat there, not merrymaking, but somberly whispering, and
betraying by every word and movement that they none of
them forgot what was happening and what was about to
happen in the bedroom. Pierre did not eat anything though
he would very much have liked to. He looked inquiringly at
his monitress and saw that she was again going on tiptoe to
the reception room where they had left Prince Vasili and the
eldest princess. Pierre concluded that this also was essential,
and after a short interval followed her. Anna Mikhaylovna
was standing beside the princess, and they were both speaking in excited whispers.
‘Permit me, Princess, to know what is necessary and
what is not necessary,’ said the younger of the two speakers,
evidently in the same state of excitement as when she had
slammed the door of her room.
‘But, my dear princess,’ answered Anna Mikhaylovna
blandly but impressively, blocking the way to the bedroom
and preventing the other from passing, ‘won’t this be too
much for poor Uncle at a moment when he needs repose?
Worldly conversation at a moment when his soul is already
prepared..’
Prince Vasili was seated in an easy chair in his famil
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iar attitude, with one leg crossed high above the other. His
cheeks, which were so flabby that they looked heavier below,
were twitching violently; but he wore the air of a man little
concerned in what the two ladies were saying.
‘Come, my dear Anna Mikhaylovna, let Catiche do as
she pleases. You know how fond the count is of her.’
‘I don’t even know what is in this paper,’ said the younger
of the two ladies, addressing Prince Vasili and pointing to
an inlaid portfolio she held in her hand. ‘All I know is that
his real will is in his writing table, and this is a paper he has
forgotten…’
She tried to pass Anna Mikhaylovna, but the latter
sprang so as to bar her path.
‘I know, my dear, kind princess,’ said Anna Mikhaylovna, seizing the portfolio so firmly that it was plain she
would not let go easily. ‘Dear princess, I beg and implore
you, have some pity on him! Je vous en conjure..’
The princess did not reply. Their efforts in the struggle
for the portfolio were the only sounds audible, but it was
evident that if the princess did speak, her words would not
be flattering to Anna Mikhaylovna. Though the latter held
on tenaciously, her voice lost none of its honeyed firmness
and softness.
‘Pierre, my dear, come here. I think he will not be out of
place in a family consultation; is it not so, Prince?’
‘Why don’t you speak, cousin?’ suddenly shrieked the
princess so loud that those in the drawing room heard her
and were startled. ‘Why do you remain silent when heaven
knows who permits herself to interfere, making a scene on
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the very threshold of a dying man’s room? Intriguer!’ she
hissed viciously, and tugged with all her might at the portfolio.
But Anna Mikhaylovna went forward a step or two to
keep her hold on the portfolio, and changed her grip.
Prince Vasili rose. ‘Oh!’ said he with reproach and surprise, ‘this is absurd! Come, let go I tell you.’
The princess let go.
‘And you too!’
But Anna Mikhaylovna did not obey him.
‘Let go, I tell you! I will take the responsibility. I myself
will go and ask him, I!… does that satisfy you?’
‘But, Prince,’ said Anna Mikhaylovna, ‘after such a solemn sacrament, allow him a moment’s peace! Here, Pierre,
tell them your opinion,’ said she, turning to the young man
who, having come quite close, was gazing with astonishment at the angry face of the princess which had lost all
dignity, and at the twitching cheeks of Prince Vasili.
‘Remember that you will answer for the consequences,’
said Prince Vasili severely. ‘You don’t know what you are
doing.’
‘Vile woman!’ shouted the princess, darting unexpectedly at Anna Mikhaylovna and snatching the portfolio from
her.
Prince Vasili bent his head and spread out his hands.
At this moment that terrible door, which Pierre had
watched so long and which had always opened so quietly,
burst noisily open and banged against the wall, and the second of the three sisters rushed out wringing her hands.
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‘What are you doing!’ she cried vehemently. ‘He is dying
and you leave me alone with him!’
Her sister dropped the portfolio. Anna Mikhaylovna,
stooping, quickly caught up the object of contention and
ran into the bedroom. The eldest princess and Prince Vasili,
recovering themselves, followed her. A few minutes later the
eldest sister came out with a pale hard face, again biting her
underlip. At sight of Pierre her expression showed an irrepressible hatred.
‘Yes, now you may be glad!’ said she; ‘this is what you
have been waiting for.’ And bursting into tears she hid her
face in her handkerchief and rushed from the room.
Prince Vasili came next. He staggered to the sofa
