Book Ten: 1812 - Chapter III

by Leo Tolstoy

　　When Michael Ivanovich returned to the study with the letter, theold prince, with spectacles on and a shade over his eyes, wassitting at his open bureau with screened candles, holding a paper inhis outstretched hand, and in a somewhat dramatic attitude was readinghis manuscript- his "Remarks" as he termed it- which was to betransmitted to the Emperor after his death.

　　When Michael Ivanovich went in there were tears in the prince's eyesevoked by the memory of the time when the paper he was now reading hadbeen written. He took the letter from Michael Ivanovich's hand, put itin his pocket, folded up his papers, and called in Alpatych who hadlong been waiting.

　　The prince had a list of things to be bought in Smolensk and,walking up and down the room past Alpatych who stood by the door, hegave his instructions.

　　"First, notepaper- do you hear? Eight quires, like this sample,gilt-edged... it must be exactly like the sample. Varnish, sealingwax, as in Michael Ivanovich'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 tobe of a special shape the prince had himself designed, and a leathercase had to be ordered to keep the "will" in.

　　The instructions to Alpatych took over two hours and still theprince did not let him go. He sat down, sank into thought, closedhis eyes, and dozed off. Alpatych made a slight movement.

　　"Well, go, go! If anything more is wanted I'll send after you."

　　Alpatych went out. The prince again went to his bureau, glanced intoit, fingered his papers, closed the bureau again, and sat down atthe table to write to the governor.

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

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

　　With the help of a footman Tikhon brought in the bedstead andbegan putting it up.

　　"That's not right! That's not right!" cried the prince, andhimself pushed it a few inches from the corner and then closer inagain.

　　"Well, at last I've finished, now I'll rest," thought the prince,and let Tikhon undress him.

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

　　"No peace, damn them!" he muttered, angry he knew not with whom. "Ahyes, there was something else important, very important, that I waskeeping till I should be in bed. The bolts? No, I told him about them.No, it was something, something in the drawing room. Princess Marytalked some nonsense. Dessalles, that fool, said something.Something in my pocket- can't remember..."

　　"Tikhon, what did we talk about at dinner?"

　　"About Prince Michael..."

　　"Be quiet, quiet!" The prince slapped his hand on the table. "Yes, Iknow, Prince Andrew's letter! Princess Mary read it. Dessalles saidsomething about Vitebsk. Now I'll read it."

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

　　"The French at Vitebsk, in four days' march they may be at Smolensk;perhaps are already there! Tikhon!" Tikhon jumped up. "No, no, I don'twant anything!" he shouted.

　　He put the letter under the candlestick and closed his eyes. Andthere rose before him the Danube at bright noonday: reeds, the Russiancamp, and himself a young general without a wrinkle on his ruddy face,vigorous and alert, entering Potemkin's gaily colored tent, and aburning sense of jealousy of "the favorite" agitated him now asstrongly as it had done then. He recalled all the words spoken at thatfirst meeting with Potemkin. And he saw before him a plump, rathersallow-faced, short, stout woman, the Empress Mother, with her smileand her words at her first gracious reception of him, and then thatsame face on the catafalque, and the encounter he had with Zubovover her coffin about his right to kiss her hand.

　　"Oh, quicker, quicker! To get back to that time and have done withall the present! Quicker, quicker- and that they should leave me inpeace!"