Throughout the whole of July the old prince was unusually energetic, even vivacious. He laid out another new garden and began a new building for the servants. The only thing that worried Princess Marya was that he slept badly. He had given up his habit of sleeping in his study and now slept in a different place every night. First he would have his camp-bed set up in the gallery, then he would use the sofa or a high-backed armchair in the drawing-room, dozing the hours away while young Petrushka acted as a replacement for Mademoiselle Bourienne and read to him. After that he would try a night in the dining-room.
On the 1st of August a second letter came from Prince Andrey. The first one, received soon after his departure, had contained an abject apology from Prince Andrey for having spoken out of turn, and a request to be restored to favour. The old prince had responded in terms of affection, and from then on he had kept away from the Frenchwoman. Prince Andrey’s second letter came from just outside Vitebsk, after it had fallen to the French, and it consisted of a brief account of the whole campaign, including a sketch-map by way of illustration, and some speculation on the future course of the campaign. In this letter Prince Andrey pointed out to his father the awkwardness of his situation at Bald Hills close to the theatre of war, in the direct line of the enemy’s advance, and advised him to move to Moscow.
At dinner that evening, when Dessalles said he had heard that the French had taken Vitebsk, the old prince remembered Prince Andrey’s letter.
‘I’ve heard from Prince Andrey today,’ he said to Princess Marya. ‘Have you read the letter?’
‘No, Father,’ the princess answered diffidently. There was no possibility that she could have read the letter; this was the first she had heard of it.
‘He writes about this war,’ said the prince, with the sneering smirk that had become second nature to him nowadays when speaking about the war.
‘Very interesting, I’m sure,’ said Dessalles. ‘Prince Andrey is in a position to know . . .’
‘Oh yes, very interesting!’ put in Mademoiselle Bourienne.
‘Go and get it,’ said the old prince to Mademoiselle Bourienne. ‘You know where it is, on that little table under the paperweight.’ Mademoiselle Bourienne jumped up eagerly.
‘No, wait,’ he called out with a scowl. ‘You go, Mikhail Ivanych!’
Mikhail Ivanych got to his feet and set off for the study. But he was scarcely out of the room when the old prince glanced round edgily, threw down his napkin and walked out himself, muttering, ‘Can’t trust them to do anything. Always get things wrong.’
As he went out, Princess Marya, Dessalles, Mademoiselle Bourienne and even little Nikolay exchanged glances, though no one said a word. Back came the old prince, bustling in with Mikhail Ivanych. He put the letter and the plan down at his side, but dinner passed without him handing it to anyone to read.
It was only when they had gone through into the drawing-room that he handed the letter to Princess Marya, then he unfolded the plan of his new buildings in front of himself, stared down at it and told her to read the letter out loud. When she had done so, Princess Marya looked quizzically at her father. He was still staring down at the plan, apparently in a world of his own.
‘What do you make of it, Prince?’ Dessalles ventured to inquire.
‘Make of it? What do I make of it?’ said the old prince, as if shocked into listening, his eyes still riveted on the building-plan.
‘It is very possible that the theatre of war may move in our direction . . .’
‘Ha-ha-ha! The theatre of war!’ said the old prince. ‘I’ve told you before, and I tell you again – the theatre of war is Poland, and the enemy will never get beyond the Niemen.’ Dessalles looked in amazement at the prince, who was going on about the Niemen when the enemy was already at the Dnieper.2 But Princess Marya could not remember where the Niemen was geographically so she assumed that what her father had said was true.
‘When the snow thaws they’ll drown in the marshes of Poland. They’re the only ones who can’t see it,’ said the old prince, clearly harking back to the 1807 campaign, which seemed like yesterday to him. ‘Bennigsen should have gone into Prussia before that, then things would have taken a different turn . . .’
‘But, Prince,’ Dessalles ventured, ‘the letter mentions Vitebsk . . .’
‘Oh, the letter. Yes . . .’ said the prince, with some irritation. ‘Yes . . . yes . . .’ His face went all gloomy. He paused. ‘Yes, he says the French have been beaten at, er, what river was it?’
Dessalles looked down.
‘The prince doesn’t say anything about that,’ he said gently.
‘He doesn’t what? Well, I didn’t invent it, that’s for sure.’
There was a long silence.
‘Yes . . . yes . . . Well then, Mikhail Ivanych,’ he snapped, looking up suddenly and pointing to the building-plan, ‘tell me how you’re going to change this . . .’
