“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!”
Just the same phrase about Countess Zubov
and just the same laugh Prince Andrey had heard five times already from his
wife 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
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
Ivanovitch, 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.…”
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