After a few minutes’ commotion around the high bed, the bearers went back to their places. Anna Mikhaylovna touched Pierre’s arm and said, ‘Come with me.’ The two of them approached the bed on which the sick man had been laid in some style perhaps to accord with the mystery that had just been enacted. He was lying with his head propped up on high pillows, his hands symmetrically spread, palms down, on the green silk quilt. When Pierre came up, the count looked straight at him, but with a gaze unintelligible to mortal man in its purpose and significance. Either these eyes said nothing at all, but simply stared because they had to look at something, or else they said too much. Pierre stopped, not knowing what he ought to do, and turned to his guide for help. Anna Mikhaylovna looked at him, motioning quickly with her eyes towards the sick man’s hand and using her lips to float down a kiss. Pierre got the message, thrusting his neck forward with a great effort to avoid getting caught in the quilt, and kissing the solid, broad hand. Nothing stirred, neither the hand itself, nor any muscle on the count’s face. Again Pierre sought guidance from Anna Mikhaylovna as to what to do next. Her eyes indicated an armchair beside the bed. Meekly, Pierre made as if to sit down in it, his eyes still wondering whether he was doing the right thing. Anna Mikhaylovna nodded approvingly. Pierre resumed his innocent, symmetrical pose as an Egyptian statue, obviously ruing the fact that his big clumsy body took up so much space, and doing his utmost mentally to reduce himself in size. He looked at the count. The count still gazed ahead at where Pierre’s face had been when he had stood before him. Anna Mikhaylovna’s attitude acknowledged all the pathos and significance of this last meeting between father and son. It lasted two minutes, but they seemed like an hour to Pierre. Suddenly a tremor passed over the big muscles and deep lines on the count’s face. The shudder intensified and the handsome mouth was contorted (it was now that Pierre realized how near death his father was), and from the contorted mouth came a hoarse wheeze. Anna Mikhaylovna looked anxiously into the sick man’s eyes, trying to work out what he wanted; she pointed at Pierre, then at a drink, then in a whispered question she mentioned the name of Prince Vasily, then she pointed to the quilt. The sick man’s eyes and face registered some impatience. He made a great effort to look round at the servant, immovable at the head of the bed.
‘His Excellency wishes to be turned over on to his other side,’ whispered the servant, and he got up to turn the count’s heavy body towards the wall. Pierre stood up to help.
While the count was being turned over, one of his arms got caught helplessly behind him and he made a vain attempt to drag it back. Whether or not the count noticed the horror with which Pierre stared at that lifeless arm, or whether some other idea flashed through his dying mind at that instant, he looked down at his unresponsive arm, then at the expression of horror on Pierre’s face, then back at his arm, and finally his face produced a smile which jarred with his fine features, a pathetically weak smile that seemed to mock his own helplessness. Suddenly, at the sight of that smile, Pierre felt a shudder in his chest and a prickling in his nose, and his eyes clouded over with tears. They finished turning the sick man towards the wall. He gave a sigh.
‘He’s having a little doze,’ said Anna Mikhaylovna, noticing that one of the princesses was coming to take her turn by the bedside. ‘Let’s go.’
Pierre went out.
CHAPTER 21
By now there was no one in the reception-room except Prince Vasily and the eldest princess, who were sitting under the portrait of Catherine engaged in a lively conversation. They stopped talking the moment they caught sight of Pierre and his guide, and he thought he saw the princess hide something away as she mumbled, ‘I can’t abide that woman.’
‘Katishe has arranged for tea to be served in the little drawing-room,’ said Prince Vasily to Anna Mikhaylovna. ‘My poor dear, you must go and take a little something or you won’t hold out.’
Saying nothing to Pierre, he simply squeezed his upper arm sympathetically. Pierre and Anna Mikhaylovna went into the little drawing-room.
