Mikhail Ivanych went over to the drawing. The old prince had a few words with him about the new building, then he glared at Princess Marya and Dessalles and walked off to his room.
Princess Marya could see shock and embarrassment written all over Dessalles’ face as he watched her father go. She noted his silence and was struck by the fact that her father had left his son’s letter behind on the drawing-room table. But she could not bring herself to speak, to ask Dessalles what lay behind his embarrassed silence; she could not even think about it.
That evening Mikhail Ivanych was sent by the prince to Princess Marya to ask for the letter left behind in the drawing-room. Princess Marya handed it over, and with extreme reluctance she ventured to ask what her father was doing.
‘Still very busy,’ said Mikhail Ivanych with a mixture of politeness and irony in a smile that drained the colour from her face. ‘He’s very worried about the new building. He did a bit of reading, but now . . .’ – Mikhail Ivanych lowered his voice – ‘he’s at his bureau, going through his will, I imagine.’ (In recent days one of the old prince’s favourite occupations had been going through the papers he wanted to leave behind at his death, a collection that he called his ‘will’.) ‘And is Alpatych being sent to Smolensk?’ asked Princess Marya. ‘Oh yes. He’s been waiting for ages.’
CHAPTER 3
When Mikhail Ivanych came back to the study with the letter the old prince was sitting at the open bureau wearing his spectacles and an eye-shade, holding a fistful of papers at arm’s length and reading them in the light of a shaded candle. His pose was one of high seriousness: these papers, which he called his ‘remarks’, were to be delivered to the Tsar after his death.
When Mikhail Ivanych came in there were tears in the prince’s eyes as he remembered writing what he was now reading. He took the letter from Mikhail Ivanych, stowed it in his pocket, folded up his papers and called to Alpatych, who had been waiting by the door for some time.
He had written down on a piece of paper a list of things he wanted from Smolensk, and now he began pacing the floor as he issued instructions to the ever-patient Alpatych, still standing by the door.
‘First, writing paper – d’ye hear? Eight quires of
He took a few more paces and consulted his memorandum.
‘Then go to the governor and give him the letter about the deed, in person.’
Then bolts were needed for the doors of the new building, and they had to be of a special kind designed by the old prince himself. Then a strongly bound box had to be ordered to keep his will in.
By now the issuing of instructions to Alpatych had taken more than two hours, but still the prince wouldn’t let him go. He sat down, deep in thought, then his eyes closed and he was off into a doze. Alpatych shifted position.
‘Well, go on then, off you go,’ said the prince. ‘If there’s anything else, I’ll send a message.’
Alpatych went out. The prince went back to the bureau, glanced inside, riffled through his papers, closed the top and sat down at the table to write to the governor.
It was late by the time he got to his feet with the letter written and sealed. He felt tired, but he knew he would never get to sleep: it was in bed that nasty thoughts came to him. He called Tikhon and went through the rooms with him, to let him know where to make up his bed for tonight. He prowled around, assessing the merits of every corner.
Nowhere suited him, but the worst place of all was his usual couch in the study. That couch filled him with dread, probably because of the horrible thoughts he had had, lying on it. Nowhere was quite right, but the best spot was a little corner in the sitting-room behind the piano, a place he hadn’t yet slept in.
With the help of a footman Tikhon brought all the things in and began to make up the bed.
‘No, no, not like that!’ cried the old prince. With his own hands he eased the bed a fraction away from the corner, and then back again.
‘Well, at last, I’ve done everything that can be done. Now I shall get some rest,’ thought the prince, and he let Tikhon undress him.
