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PIERRE KNEW WELL that great room, divided by columns and an arch, and
carpeted with Persian rugs. The part of the room behind the columns, where on
one side there stood a high mahogany bedstead with silken hangings, and on the
other a huge case of holy pictures, was brightly and decoratively lighted up, as
churches are lighted for evening service. Under the gleaming ornamentation of
the case stood a long invalid chair, and in the chair, on snow-white,
uncrumpled, freshly changed pillows, covered to the waist with a bright green
quilt, Pierre recognised the majestic figure of his father, Count Bezuhov, with
the grey shock of hair like a lion's mane over his broad forehead, and the
characteristically aristocratic, deep lines on his handsome, reddish-yellow
face. He was lying directly under the holy pictures: both his great stout arms
were lying on the quilt. In his right hand, which lay with the palm downwards, a
wax candle had been thrust between the thumb and forefinger, and an old servant
bending down over the chair held it in it. About the chair stood the clergy in
their shining ceremonial vestments, with their long hair pulled out over them.
They held lighted candles in their hands, and were performing the service with
deliberate solemnity. A little behind them stood the two younger princesses
holding handkerchiefs to their eyes, and in front of them the eldest, Katish,
stood with a vindictive and determined air, never for an instant taking her eyes
off the holy image, as though she were declaring to all that she would not
answer for herself, if she were to look around. Anna Mihalovna with a
countenance of meek sorrow and forgiveness stood at the door with the unknown
lady. Prince Vassily was standing close to the invalid chair on the other side
of the door. He had drawn a carved, velvet chair up to him, and was leaning on
the back of it with his left hand, in which he held a candle, while with his
right he crossed himself, turning his eyes upwards every time as he put his
finger to his forehead. His face expressed quiet piety and submission to the
will of God. “If you don't understand such feelings, so much the worse for you,”
his face seemed to say.
Behind him stood the adjutant, the doctors, and the men-servants; the men and
the women had separated as though they were in church. All were silently
crossing themselves, nothing was audible but the reading of the service, the
subdued, deep bass singing, and in the intervals of silence sighs could be heard
and the shuffling of feet. With a significant air, which showed she knew what
she was about, Anna Mihalovna walked right across the room to Pierre and gave
him a candle. He lighted it, and absorbed in watching the people around him, he
absent-mindedly crossed himself with the hand in which he held the candle. The
youngest princess, Sophie, the rosy, laughing one with the mole, was looking at
him. She smiled, hid her face in her handkerchief, and for a long while did not
uncover it. But looking at Pierre again, again she laughed. She was apparently
unable to look at him without laughing, but could not resist looking at him, and
to be out of temptation, she softly moved behind a column. In the middle of the
service the voices of the priests suddenly ceased, and they whispered something
to one another. The old servant, who was holding the count's hand, got up and
turned to the ladies. Anna Mihalovna stepped forward and, stooping over the sick
man, she beckoned behind her back to Lorrain. The French doctor had been leaning
against the column without a candle, in the respectful attitude of the
foreigner, who would show that in spite of the difference of religion he
comprehends all the solemnity of the ceremony and even approves of it. With the
noiseless steps of a man in full vigour of his age, he went up to the sick man.
His delicate, white fingers lifted his disengaged hand from the quilt, and
turning away, the doctor began feeling the pulse in absorbed attention. They
gave the sick man some drink; there was a slight bustle around him, then all
went back to their places and the service was continued. During this break in
the proceedings Pierre noticed that Prince Vassily moved away from his
chair-back, and with that same air of being quite sure of what he was about, and
of its being so much the worse for others, if they failed to understand it, he
did not go up to the sick man, but passed by him and joined the eldest princess.
Then together they went away to the further end of the room to the high bedstead
under the silk canopy. When they moved away from the bed the prince and princess
disappeared together by the further door, but before the end of the service they
returned one after the other to their places. Pierre paid no more attention to
this circumstance than to all the rest, having once for all made up his mind
that all that he saw taking place that evening must inevitably be as it
was.
The sounds of the church singing ceased and the voice of the chief
ecclesiastic was heard, respectfully congratulating the sick man on his
reception of the mystery. The dying man lay as lifeless and immovable as before.
Every one was moving about him, there was the sound of footsteps and of
whispers, Anna Mihalovna's whisper rising above the rest.
Pierre heard her say: “Undoubtedly he must be moved on to the bed; it's
impossible …”
The sick man was so surrounded by the doctors, the princesses and the
servants, that Pierre could no longer see the reddish-yellow face with the grey
mane, which he had never lost sight of for one instant during the ceremony, even
though he had been watching other people too. Pierre guessed from the cautious
movements of the people about the chair that they were lifting the dying man up
and moving him.
“Hold on to my arm; you'll drop him so,” he heard the frightened whisper of
one of the servants. “Lower down … another one here,” said voices. And their
heavy breathing and hurried tread seemed to show that the weight they carried
was too heavy for them.
As they passed him—Anna Mihalovna among them—the young man caught a glimpse
over people's backs and necks of the great muscular open chest, the grey, curly,
leonine head, and the massive shoulders of the sick man, which were pushed up,
as he was supported under the armpits. His head, with its extraordinarily broad
brow and cheek-bones, its beautiful sensual mouth, and haughty, cold eyes, was
not disfigured by the proximity of death. It was just the same as Pierre had
seen it three months before, when his father had been sending him off to
Petersburg. But the head swayed helplessly with the jerky steps of the bearers,
and the cold, apathetic eyes did not know on what to rest.
They were busy for several minutes round the high bed; then the people, who
had moved the count, dispersed. Anna Mihalovna touched Pierre's arm and said,
“Come along.” With her Pierre approached the bed, on which the sick man had been
laid in a ceremonial position in keeping with the sacred rite that had just been
performed. He was lying with his head propped high on the pillows. His hands
were laid symmetrically on the green silk quilt with the palms turned downwards.
When Pierre came up, the count looked straight at him, but he looked at him with
a gaze the intent and significance of which no man could fathom. Either these
eyes said nothing, but simply looked because as eyes they must look at
something, or they said too much. Pierre stopped, not knowing what he was to do,
and looked inquiringly at his monitress. Anna Mihalovna gave him a hurried
glance, with a gesture indicating the sick man's hand and with her lips wafting
towards it a phantom kiss. Pierre did as he was bid, and carefully craning his
neck to avoid entanglement with the quilt, kissed the broad-boned, muscular
hand. There was not the faintest stir in the hand, nor in any muscle of the
count's face. Pierre again looked inquiringly at Anna Mihalovna to learn what he
was to do now. Anna Mihalovna glanced towards the armchair that stood beside the
bed. Pierre proceeded obediently to sit down there, his eyes still inquiring
whether he had done the right thing. Anna Mihalovna nodded approvingly. Again
Pierre fell into the naïvely symmetrical pose of an Egyptian statue, obviously
distressed that his ungainly person took up so much room, and doing his utmost
to look as small as possible. He looked at the count. The count still gazed at
the spot where Pierre's face had been, when he was standing up. Anna Mihalovna's
attitude evinced her consciousness of the touching gravity of this last meeting
between father and son. It lasted for two minutes, which seemed to Pierre an
hour. Suddenly a shudder passed over the thick muscles and furrows of the
count's face. The shudder grew more intense; the beautiful mouth was contorted
(it was only then that Pierre grasped how near death his father was) and from
the contorted mouth there came a husky, muffled sound. Anna Mihalovna looked
intently at the sick man's mouth, and trying to guess what he wanted, pointed
first to Pierre, then to some drink, then in an inquiring whisper she mentioned
the name of Prince Vassily, then pointed to the quilt. The eyes and face of the
sick man showed impatience. He made an effort to glance at the servant, who
never moved away from the head of his bed.
“His excellency wants to be turned over on the other side,” whispered the
servant, and he got up to turn the heavy body of the count facing the
wall.
Pierre stood up to help the servant.
While the count was being turned over, one of his arms dragged helplessly
behind, and he made a vain effort to pull it after him. Whether the count
noticed the face of horror with which Pierre looked at that lifeless arm, or
whether some other idea passed through his dying brain, he looked at the
refractory arm, at the expression of horror on Pierre's face, again at his arm,
and a smile came on his face, strangely out of keeping with its features; a
weak, suffering smile, which seemed mocking at his own helplessness. Suddenly,
at the sight of that smile, Pierre felt a lump in his throat and a tickling in
his nose, and tears dimmed his eyes. The sick man was turned towards the wall.
He sighed.
“He has fallen into a doze,” said Anna Mihalovna, noticing the princess
coming to take her turn by the bedside. “Let us go.”
Pierre went out.
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