‘Yes, you may be right,’ said Prince Andrey. ‘Go on, Masha, I’ll follow you in a minute.’
On the way to his sister’s room, in the gallery connecting the two parts of the house, Prince Andrey came across Mademoiselle Bourienne, who smiled sweetly at him. It was the third time that day that she had happened on him in out-of-the-way passages, always with a nice beaming smile on her face.
‘Oh, I thought you were in your room,’ she said, blushing for some reason and looking down. Prince Andrey glanced at her sharply, and a look of bitter displeasure came over his face. He glared at her in silence, not at her eyes but at her forehead and hair, with such contempt that she turned bright red and walked off without another word. When he got to his sister’s room, the little princess was awake and her cheery little voice could be heard through the open door, chattering away like mad. Her French poured out as if she had been too long restrained and now wanted to make up for lost time.
‘No, but just think of old Countess Zubov, with all those false curls and her mouth full of false teeth49 as though she was trying to turn back the years. Hee-hee-hee, Marie!’
This was the fifth or sixth time that Prince Andrey had heard his wife speak these very words about Countess Zubov, and always with the same laugh. He walked quietly into the room. The little princess was sitting in a chair with some sewing in her hands, all round and rosy, coming out with a stream of Petersburg memories and fashionable phrases. Prince Andrey walked over, stroked her on the head and asked if she had got over her tiredness from the journey. She nodded and went on with her tale.
The carriage with six horses stood at the steps. It was an autumn night, so dark the coachman couldn’t see the main shaft of his carriage. Servants with lanterns were running up and down the steps. The vast house stood there with its huge windows blazing. House serfs thronged the entrance, eager to wish their young prince Godspeed. All the members of the household were gathered in the great hall: Mikhail Ivanovich, Mademoiselle Bourienne, Princess Marya and the little princess. Prince Andrey had been summoned to his father’s study, so they could be alone to say goodbye, and now everyone was waiting for him to come out again. When Prince Andrey went into the study, the old prince was wearing his old-age spectacles and his white dressing-gown, in which he never saw anyone but his son. He was sitting at the table writing. He looked round.
‘You’re off then?’ And he went on writing.
‘I’ve come to say goodbye.’
‘Kiss me here.’ He offered his cheek. ‘Thank you very much!’
‘What are you thanking me for?’
‘For not hanging about and not being tied to your wife’s apron strings. Duty comes first. Thank you very much indeed!’ And he went on writing, with ink splattering from his scratching pen. ‘If you want to say something, say it. I can manage two things at once,’ he added.
‘Well, my wife . . . I’m rather embarrassed to be leaving her in your hands . . .’
‘What are you rambling on about? Say what you mean.’
‘When her time comes, please send to Moscow for a specialist . . . I want him here.’
The old prince stopped, bemused, and glared harshly at his son.
‘I know no one can help if nature doesn’t,’ said Prince Andrey, much embarrassed. ‘I know it’s only a chance in a million, but it’s her one nightmare – and mine. She has heard things, she’s had bad dreams and she’s very scared.’
‘Hm . . . hm . . .’ mumbled the old prince, going on with his writing. ‘I’ll see to it.’ He signed with a flourish, and then turned sharply to his son and laughed.
‘Bad business, eh?’
‘What is, father?’
‘Wife!’ said the old prince, curt but emphatic.
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Prince Andrey.
‘Can’t be helped, dear boy,’ said the old prince, ‘they’re all like that, and you can’t get unmarried now. Don’t worry, I shan’t tell anyone, but you know it’s true.’
He grasped his son’s hand with bony little fingers and shook it, looking him straight in the face with sharp eyes that seemed to see right through him, and gave another chilling laugh.
The son sighed, inadvertently admitting that his father had seen through him. The old man was busy folding and sealing the letters, helter-skelter as always, snatching up wax, seal and paper and throwing them down again. ‘Can’t be helped. She’s a pretty thing. I’ll do everything. Not to worry,’ he said in his staccato manner as he finished sealing the letters.
Andrey said nothing, feeling both pleased and displeased that his father had seen through him. The old man got up and gave his son the first letter.
