LITMIR.BIZ

      CHAPTER XXVIII

      Prince Andrew was to leave next evening. The old prince, not altering his routine, retired as usual after dinner. The little princess was in her sister-in-law’s room. Prince Andrew in a traveling coat without epaulettes had been packing with his valet in the rooms assigned to him. After inspecting the carriage himself and seeing the trunks put in, he ordered the horses to be harnessed. Only those things he always kept with him remained in his room; a small box, a large canteen fitted with silver plate, two Turkish pistols and a saber—a present from his father who had brought it from the siege of Ochákov. All these traveling effects of Prince Andrew’s were in very good order: new, clean, and in cloth covers carefully tied with tapes.

      When starting on a journey or changing their mode of life, men capable of reflection are generally in a serious frame of mind. At such moments one reviews the past and plans for the future. Prince Andrew’s face looked very thoughtful and tender. With his hands behind him he paced briskly from corner to corner of the room, looking straight before him and thoughtfully shaking his head. Did he fear going to the war, or was he sad at leaving his wife?—perhaps both, but evidently he did not wish to be seen in that mood, for hearing footsteps in the passage he hurriedly unclasped his hands, stopped at a table as if tying the cover of the small box, and assumed his usual tranquil and impenetrable expression. It was the heavy tread of Princess Mary that he heard.

      “I hear you have given orders to harness,” she cried, panting (she had apparently been running), “and I did so wish to have another talk with you alone! God knows how long we may again be parted. You are not angry with me for coming? You have changed so, Andrúsha,” she added, as if to explain such a question.

      She smiled as she uttered his pet name, “Andrúsha.” It was obviously strange to her to think that this stern handsome man should be Andrúsha—the slender mischievous boy who had been her playfellow in childhood.

      “And where is Lise?” he asked, answering her question only by a smile.

      “She was so tired that she has fallen asleep on the sofa in my room. Oh, Andrew! What a treasure of a wife you have,” said she, sitting down on the sofa, facing her brother. “She is quite a child: such a dear, merry child. I have grown so fond of her.”

      Prince Andrew was silent, but the princess noticed the ironical and contemptuous look that showed itself on his face.

“One must be indulgent to little weaknesses; who is free from them, Andrew? Don’t forget that she has grown up and been educated in society, and so her position now is not a rosy one. We should enter into everyone’s situation. Tout comprendre, c’est tout pardonner16. Think what it must be for her, poor thing, after what she has been used to, to be parted from her husband and be left alone in the country, in her condition! It’s very hard.”

      Prince Andrew smiled as he looked at his sister, as we smile at those we think we thoroughly understand.

      “You live in the country and don’t think the life terrible,” he replied.

      “I . . . that’s different. Why speak of me? I don’t want any other life, and can’t, for I know no other. But think, Andrew: for a young society woman to be buried in the country during the best years of her life, all alone—for Papa is always busy, and I . . . well, you know what poor resources I have for entertaining a woman used to the best society. There is only Mademoiselle Bourienne . . . .”

      “I don’t like your Mademoiselle Bourienne at all,” said Prince Andrew.

      “No? She is very nice and kind and, above all, she’s much to be pitied. She has no one, no one. To tell the truth, I don’t need her, and she’s even in my way. You know I always was a savage, and now am even more so. I like being alone . . . . Father likes her very much. She and Michael Ivánovich are the two people to whom he is always gentle and kind, because he has been a benefactor to them both. As Sterne says: ‘We don’t love people so much for the good they have done us, as for the good we have done them.’ Father took her when she was homeless after losing her own father. She is very good-natured, and my father likes her way of reading. She reads to him in the evenings and reads splendidly.”

      “To be quite frank, Mary, I expect Father’s character sometimes makes things trying for you, doesn’t it?” Prince Andrew asked suddenly.

      Princess Mary was first surprised and then aghast at this question.

      “For me? For me? . . . Trying for me! . . . ” said she.

      “He always was rather harsh; and now I should think he’s getting very trying,” said Prince Andrew, apparently speaking lightly of their father in order to puzzle or test his sister.

      “You are good in every way, Andrew, but you have a kind of intellectual pride,” said the princess, following the train of her own thoughts rather than the trend of the conversation—“and that’s a great sin. How can one judge Father? But even if one might, what feeling except veneration could such a man as my father evoke? And I am so contented and happy with him. I only wish you were all as happy as I am.”

      Her brother shook his head incredulously.

      “The only thing that is hard for me . . . I will tell you the truth, Andrew . . . is Father’s way of treating religious subjects. I don’t understand how a man of his immense intellect can fail to see what is as clear as day, and can go so far astray. That is the only thing that makes me unhappy. But even in this I can see lately a shade of improvement. His satire has been less bitter of late, and there was a monk he received and had a long talk with.”

      “Ah! my dear, I am afraid you and your monk are wasting your powder,” said Prince Andrew banteringly yet tenderly.

      “Ah! mon ami, I only pray, and hope that God will hear me. Andrew . . . ” she said timidly after a moment’s silence, “I have a great favor to ask of you.”

      “What is it, dear?”

      “No—promise that you will not refuse! It will give you no trouble and is nothing unworthy of you, but it will comfort me. Promise, Andrúsha! . . . ” said she, putting her hand in her reticule but not yet taking out what she was holding inside it, as if what she held were the subject of her request and must not be shown before the request was granted.

      She looked timidly at her brother.

      “Even if it were a great deal of trouble . . . ” answered Prince Andrew, as if guessing what it was about.

      “Think what you please! I know you are just like Father. Think as you please, but do this for my sake! Please do! Father’s father, our grandfather, wore it in all his wars.” (She still did not take out what she was holding in her reticule.) “So you promise?”

      “Of course. What is

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