‘He had another stroke half an hour ago. Do take courage, my friend.’
Pierre was in such a confused state of mind that the word ‘stroke’ made him think of a blow from some heavy body. He looked nonplussed at Prince Vasily, and it was some time before he realized that a stroke is an illness. Prince Vasily said a few words to Lorrain in passing and tiptoed out. He was not very adept at tiptoeing, and his whole body jerked and twitched awkwardly. He was followed by the eldest princess, then by the clergy and the deacons; a few servants also went out. Beyond the door people could be heard moving about, and before long Anna Mikhaylovna ran out, her face still pale but resolute in doing her duty. She touched Pierre on the arm and said, ‘God’s goodness is inexhaustible. The last rites are beginning. Come with me.’
Pierre went in, and as he trod the soft carpet he noticed that the adjutant and the unknown lady and even one or two servants came trooping in too, as if it was no longer necessary to ask permission to enter that room.
CHAPTER 20
Pierre knew it well, this huge room divided by columns and an arch, the floor covered with Persian carpets. That part of the room beyond the columns, where a high mahogany bedstead with silk hangings stood on one side, and with a huge stand and many icons on the other, was lit up with a bright red light, like a church prepared for evening service. Under the ornamental icon-coverings stood a deep Voltaire armchair,35 and in it Pierre saw, propped up on snow-white, uncrumpled, freshly changed pillows and covered waist-high with a bright green quilt, a familiar and majestic figure, his father, Count Bezukhov, slumping there with the familiar grey lion’s mane over his broad brow, and the typically aristocratic lines deeply etched into a handsome, reddish-yellow face. He lay there immediately under the icons with his big thick arms at rest on the quilt. In his right hand, palm down, a wax candle had been thrust between thumb and forefinger and was being held in place by an old servant bending over him from behind. Around the chair hovered the churchmen with their long hair trailing down over splendid glittering vestments. Holding lighted candles in their hands, they were performing their offices with unhurried solemnity. Just behind them stood the two younger princesses, clutching handkerchiefs and intermittently dabbing their eyes, and in front of them the eldest, Katishe, a picture of spiteful determination, kept her eyes glued on the icons, as though declaring to all and sundry that she wouldn’t answer for the consequences if she were to look away from them. Anna Mikhaylovna, all meekness, sorrowfulness and forgiveness, stood near the door with the unknown lady. Prince Vasily was standing beside the invalid chair on the other side of the door. He had drawn up a carved, velvet chair and was resting his left hand on its back, holding a candle, and using his right hand to cross himself, rolling his eyes upwards every time he put his fingers to his forehead. His face conveyed a gentle piety and resignation to the will of God. ‘If you cannot understand feelings like these,’ his face seemed to say, ‘that’s too bad for you.’
Behind him stood the adjutant, the doctors and the men servants; the men and the women had separated as in church. They all made the sign of the cross in silence, and the only sounds came from the holy reading, the subdued, deep bass chanting, and in moments of silence from some sighing and the shuffling of feet. With a meaningful air which showed she knew what she was doing, Anna Mikhaylovna walked across the room to Pierre and handed him a candle. He lit it, but was then so busy watching the people around him that he used the hand holding the candle to cross himself.
