The princess decided to leave on the 15th. She was busy all the previous day with preparations and the issuing of instructions, with everyone now turning to her. Without changing for bed, she spent the night of the 14th as usual in the room next to the one where the old prince lay. Several times she woke hearing a groan or a muttered sound, a creak from the bed, or the footsteps of Tikhon and the doctor going in to turn him over. Several times she listened at the door; he seemed to be more agitated than ever and muttering louder than before. She couldn’t sleep, and several times when she went to the door to listen she was tempted to go in, but couldn’t bring herself to do so. Even though he could not speak, Princess Marya could tell, and in any case she knew, how he hated any display of anxiety on his behalf. She had noticed him turning away instinctively to avoid her eyes, which, just as instinctively, had been glued on him. She knew that if she were to go in at night at an unusual time it would upset him.
And yet she had never felt more sorry for him, never felt such a dread of losing him. She recalled the whole of her life with him, and in his every word and every action she saw an expression of love for her. Occasionally these memories were encroached upon by temptations of the devil, thoughts about what would happen after his death, and what she would do with her new-found freedom. But she drove these thoughts away with a feeling of revulsion. By morning he had settled down, and she had fallen asleep.
She woke late. The innocence that often comes with the moment of waking showed her only too clearly what worried her most about her father’s illness. She woke, listened to what was happening on the other side of the door, heard him still muttering, and told herself with a sigh that nothing had changed.
‘But what did I expect? What did I want? I want him to die,’ she cried in a fit of self-loathing.
She washed and dressed, ran through her prayers, and went out on to the steps. There were carriages at the entrance, without the horses, and their luggage was being stowed.
The morning was warm and grey. Princess Marya hung about on the steps, still horrified at her own wickedness, and trying to get her thoughts into some kind of order before going in to see him.
The doctor came downstairs and walked out to see her.
‘He’s a little better this morning,’ said the doctor. ‘I’ve been looking for you. You can just about make out what he’s saying. His head’s a bit clearer. Come on in. He’s asking for you . . .’
Princess Marya’s heart leapt at this news and the colour drained from her face; she had to lean against the door to keep herself from falling. The thought of seeing him, talking to him, feeling his eyes on her now, when her soul was brimming with these awful, criminal temptations, filled her with an agonizing feeling of delight mixed with horror.
‘Shall we go in?’ said the doctor.
Princess Marya went into her father’s room and walked over to his bed. He was lying well propped up, and his little bony hands with their knotted purple veins were laid across the quilt. His left eye stared straight ahead, while the right eye looked askew, and his lips and eyebrows were without any movement. He looked pathetically small and thin. His face with its shrunken features seemed to have shrivelled up or melted away. Princess Marya went over and kissed him on the hand. His left hand seized hers; he had clearly been waiting for her. He tugged at her hand, and his eyebrows and lips quivered with an angry tremor.
She looked at him in dismay, trying to make out what he wanted of her. When she shifted position so his left eye could see her face he calmed down and for some seconds he kept that one eye glued on her. Then, with a stirring of his lips and tongue, sounds emerged as he struggled to speak, still fixing her with a meek, imploring gaze as if he was worried that she might not understand.
Princess Marya stared back at him, concentrating as hard as she could. The sad comedy of his struggle with his tongue forced Princess Marya to look down, and it cost her an effort to swallow the deep sobs rising in her gorge. He said something, and repeated it several times. Princess Marya could not catch what it was, but she tried to guess by repeating his words and making them sound like questions.
‘O-o . . . a-ay,’ he said over and over again . . . His words were beyond all understanding. The doctor thought he might have guessed, so he repeated them.
‘Don’t be afraid?’
The prince shook his head, and said it again.
‘Soul – a soul in pain!’ came Princess Marya’s interpretation. With a mumble of approval he took her hand and pressed it to different parts of his chest as if he could not find the right place for it.
‘Thinking! . . . About you!’ he managed to get out, much more clearly than before, now that he felt sure he was being understood. Princess Marya pressed her head against his arm, fighting down her sobs and tears.
He stroked her hair.
