‘Yes, perhaps so,’ said Prince Andrey. ‘Go, Masha, I’ll come immediately.’
On the way to his sister’s room, in the gallery that united one house to the other, Prince Andrey encountered Mademoiselle Bourienne smiling sweetly. It was the third time that day that with an innocent and enthusiastic smile she had thrown herself in his way in secluded passages,
‘Ah, I thought you were in your own room,’ she said, for some reason blushing and casting down her eyes. Prince Andrey looked sternly at her. A sudden look of wrathful exasperation came into his face. He said nothing to her, but stared at her forehead and her hair, without looking at her eyes, with such contempt that the Frenchwoman crimsoned and went away without a word. When he reached his sister’s room, the little princess was awake and her gay little voice could be heard through the open door, hurrying one word after another. She talked as though, after being long restrained, she wanted to make up for lost time, and, as always, she spoke French.
‘No, but imagine the old Countess Zubov, with false curls and her mouth full of false teeth as though she wanted to defy the years. Ha, ha, ha, Marie 1’
Just the same phrase about Countess Zubov and just the same laugh Prince Andrey had heard five times already from his v/ife before outsiders. He walked softly into the room. The little princess, plump and rosy, was sitting in a low chair with her work in her hands, trotting out her Petersburg reminiscences and phrases. Prince Andrey went up, stroked her on the head, and asked if she had got over the fatigue of the journey. She answered him and went on talking.
The coach with six horses stood at the steps. It was a dark autumn night. The coachman could not see the shafts of the carriage. Servants with lanterns were running to and fro on the steps. The immense house glared with its great windows lighted up. The house-serfs were crowding in the outer hall, anxious to say good-bye to their young prince. In the great hall within stood all the members of the household: Mihail Ivano- vitch, Mademoiselle Bourienne, Princess Marya, and the little princess ,
Prince Andrey had been summoned to the study of his father, who wanted to take leave of him alone. All were waiting for him to come out again. When Prince Andrey went into the study, the old prince was in his old-age spectacles and his white dressing-gown, in which he never saw any one but his son. He was sitting at the table writing. He looked round.
'Going?’ And he went on writing again.
‘I have come to say good-bye.’
‘Kiss me here,’ he touched his cheek; ‘thanks, thanks!’
‘What are you thanking me for?’
‘For not lingering beyond your fixed time, for not hanging about a woman’s petticoats. Duty before everything. Thanks, thanks!’ And he went on writing, so that ink spurted from the scratching pen.
‘If you want to say anything, say it. I can do these two things at once,’ he added.
‘About my wife . . . I’m ashamed as it is to leave her on your hands. . . .’
‘Why talk nonsense? Say what you want.’
‘When my wife’s confinement is due, send to Moscow for an accoucheur . . . Let him be here.’
The old man stopped and stared with stern eyes at his son, as though not understanding.
‘I know that no one can be of use, if nature does not assist,’ said Prince Andrey, evidently confused. ‘I admit that out of a million cases only one goes wrong, but it’s her fancy and mine. They’ve been telling her things; she’s had a dream and she’s frightened.’
‘H’m . . . h’m . . .’ the old prince muttered to himself, going on with his writing. ‘I will do so.’ He scribbled his signature, and suddenly turned quickly to his son and laughed.
‘It’s a bad business, eh?’
‘What’s a bad business, father?’
‘Wife!’ the old prince said briefly and significantly.
‘I don’t understand,’ said Prince Andrey.
‘But there’s no help for it, my dear boy,’ said the old prince; ‘they’re all like that, and there’s no getting unmarried again. Don’t be afraid, I won’t say a word to any one, but you know it yourself.’
He grasped his hand with his thin, little, bony fingers, shook it, looked straight into his son’s face with his keen eyes, that seemed to see right through any one, and again he laughed his frigid laugh.
The son sighed, acknowledging in that sigh that his father understood him. The old man, still busy folding and sealing the letters with his habitual rapidity, snatched up and flung down again the wax, the seal, and the paper.
‘It can’t be helped. She’s pretty. I’ll do everything. Set your mind at rest,’ he said jerkily, as he sealed the letter.
Andrey did not speak; it was both pleasant and painful to him that his father understood him. The old man got up and gave his son the letter.
