CHAPTER III

When Michael Ivánovich returned to the study with the letter, the old
prince, with spectacles on and a shade over his eyes, was sitting at his
open bureau with screened candles, holding a paper in his outstretched
hand, and in a somewhat dramatic attitude was reading his manuscript—his
“Remarks” as he termed it—which was to be transmitted to the Emperor
after his death.

When Michael Ivánovich went in there were tears in the prince’s eyes
evoked by the memory of the time when the paper he was now reading had
been written. He took the letter from Michael Ivánovich’s hand, put it in
his pocket, folded up his papers, and called in Alpátych who had long been
waiting.

The prince had a list of things to be bought in Smolénsk and, walking up
and down the room past Alpátych who stood by the door, he gave his
instructions.

“First, notepaper—do you hear? Eight quires, like this sample,
gilt-edged… it must be exactly like the sample. Varnish, sealing wax, as
in Michael Ivánovich’s list.”

He paced up and down for a while and glanced at his notes.

“Then hand to the governor in person a letter about the deed.”

Next, bolts for the doors of the new building were wanted and had to be of
a special shape the prince had himself designed, and a leather case had to
be ordered to keep the “will” in.

The instructions to Alpátych took over two hours and still the prince did
not let him go. He sat down, sank into thought, closed his eyes, and dozed
off. Alpátych made a slight movement.

“Well, go, go! If anything more is wanted I’ll send after you.”

Alpátych went out. The prince again went to his bureau, glanced into it,
fingered his papers, closed the bureau again, and sat down at the table to
write to the governor.

It was already late when he rose after sealing the letter. He wished to
sleep, but he knew he would not be able to and that most depressing
thoughts came to him in bed. So he called Tíkhon and went through the
rooms with him to show him where to set up the bed for that night.

He went about looking at every corner. Every place seemed unsatisfactory,
but worst of all was his customary couch in the study. That couch was
dreadful to him, probably because of the oppressive thoughts he had had
when lying there. It was unsatisfactory everywhere, but the corner behind
the piano in the sitting room was better than other places: he had never
slept there yet.

With the help of a footman Tíkhon brought in the bedstead and began
putting it up.

“That’s not right! That’s not right!” cried the prince, and himself pushed
it a few inches from the corner and then closer in again.

“Well, at last I’ve finished, now I’ll rest,” thought the prince, and let
Tíkhon undress him.

Frowning with vexation at the effort necessary to divest himself of his
coat and trousers, the prince undressed, sat down heavily on the bed, and
appeared to be meditating as he looked contemptuously at his withered
yellow legs. He was not meditating, but only deferring the moment of
making the effort to lift those legs up and turn over on the bed. “Ugh,
how hard it is! Oh, that this toil might end and you would release me!”
thought he. Pressing his lips together he made that effort for the
twenty-thousandth time and lay down. But hardly had he done so before he
felt the bed rocking backwards and forwards beneath him as if it were
breathing heavily and jolting. This happened to him almost every night. He
opened his eyes as they were closing.

“No peace, damn them!” he muttered, angry he knew not with
whom. “Ah yes, there was something else important, very important,
that I was keeping till I should be in bed. The bolts? No, I told him
about them. No, it was something, something in the drawing room. Princess
Mary talked some nonsense. Dessalles, that fool, said something. Something
in my pocket—can’t remember….”

“Tíkhon, what did we talk about at dinner?”

“About Prince Michael…”

“Be quiet, quiet!” The prince slapped his hand on the table. “Yes, I know,
Prince Andrew’s letter! Princess Mary read it. Dessalles said something
about Vítebsk. Now I’ll read it.”

He had the letter taken from his pocket and the table—on which stood
a glass of lemonade and a spiral wax candle—moved close to the bed,
and putting on his spectacles he began reading. Only now in the stillness
of the night, reading it by the faint light under the green shade, did he
grasp its meaning for a moment.

“The French at Vítebsk, in four days’ march they may be at Smolénsk;
perhaps are already there! Tíkhon!” Tíkhon jumped up. “No, no, I don’t
want anything!” he shouted.

He put the letter under the candlestick and closed his eyes. And there
rose before him the Danube at bright noonday: reeds, the Russian camp, and
himself a young general without a wrinkle on his ruddy face, vigorous and
alert, entering Potëmkin’s gaily colored tent, and a burning sense of
jealousy of “the favorite” agitated him now as strongly as it had done
then. He recalled all the words spoken at that first meeting with
Potëmkin. And he saw before him a plump, rather sallow-faced, short, stout
woman, the Empress Mother, with her smile and her words at her first
gracious reception of him, and then that same face on the catafalque, and
the encounter he had with Zúbov over her coffin about his right to kiss
her hand.

“Oh, quicker, quicker! To get back to that time and have done with all the
present! Quicker, quicker—and that they should leave me in peace!”