LITMIR.BIZ

       THE DEATH OF COUNT BEZUKHOV Drawing by M.S. Bashilov, 1866

      The sounds of church chanting ceased and the voice of one of the clergyman respectfully congratulated the sick man on having taken the sacrament. The sick man lay there as lifeless and motionless as ever. Everyone around him began to stir, there was a sound of footsteps and whispering, among which Anna Mikhailovna’s whisper stood out most sharply of all.

      Pierre listened as she said:

      “He must be moved to the bed, it will be quite impossible here …”

      The doctors, princesses and servants crowded round the sick man so tightly that Pierre could no longer see that reddish-yellow head with the grey mane which, despite the fact that he also looked at other faces, had never been out of his sight for a moment throughout the service. Pierre guessed from the cautious movements of the people who had surrounded the couch that they were lifting up the dying man and moving him.

      “Grip my hand, you’ll drop him like that,” he heard one of the servants whisper in alarm. “From underneath … once more,” voices said, and the heavy breathing and foot-shuffling became more urgent, as though the weight they were carrying was more than they could manage.

      The bearers, whose number included Anna Mikhailovna, drew level with the young man, and for a moment he could see behind the people’s backs and heads the high, bloated, open chest and fat shoulders of the sick man, raised upwards by the people who were holding him under the arms, and the grey, curly lion’s mane. The head with the unusually broad brow and cheekbones, the beautiful, sensuous mouth and the majestically cool gaze had not been disfigured by the nearness of death. It was the same as Pierre had known it three months ago, when the count had sent him to St. Petersburg. But this head swayed helplessly to the uneven gait of the bearers and the cool, detached gaze did not know what to settle on.

      Several moments passed in commotion beside the tall bedstead: the people who had been carrying the sick man dispersed; Anna Mikhailovna touched Pierre’s arm and said: “Come.” She and Pierre approached the bed on which the sick man had been placed in a ceremonial pose that was evidently related to the sacrament that had just been celebrated. He was lying with his head propped up high on a pillow. His arms were laid out symmetrically on the green silk quilt, palms down. When Pierre approached, the count looked at him, but looked at him with that gaze, the meaning and import of which no man can understand. That gaze either said absolutely nothing at all, except that as long as one has eyes, one must look somewhere, or it said too much. Pierre halted, not knowing what he should do, and glanced enquiringly at his guide, Anna Mikhailovna. With a rapid gesture of her eyes, Anna Mikhailovna indicated the sick man’s hand, blowing a kiss to it with her lips. Pierre, painstakingly craning his neck forward to avoid catching the quilt, did as she advised and pressed his lips to the broad-boned, fleshy hand. The hand did not even twitch, nor did a single one of the count’s muscles. Pierre again glanced enquiringly at Anna Mikhailovna, asking what he ought to do now. With her eyes Anna Mihailovna indicated to him the armchair standing by the bed. Pierre obediently began sitting down on the chair, continuing to ask with his eyes whether he was doing as he ought. Anna Mikhailovna nodded approvingly. Pierre again assumed the symmetrical pose of an Egyptian statue, clearly regretting that his awkward and fat body occupied such a large amount of space and exerting all his inner strength to appear as small as possible. He looked at the count. The count looked at the spot where Pierre’s face had been when he was standing. Through her expression Anna Mikhailovna demonstrated her awareness of the touching gravity of this final moment of meeting between father and son. This continued for two minutes, which seemed like an hour to Pierre. Suddenly a trembling began in the large muscles and wrinkles of the count’s face. The trembling intensified, the handsome mouth twisted (it was only at this point that Pierre realised how close his father was to death) and a vague, hoarse sound issued from the distorted mouth. Anna Mikhailovna looked hard into the sick man’s eyes and, trying to guess what it was he wanted, pointed first to Pierre, then to the drink, then pronounced Prince Vasily’s name in a whisper, then pointed to the quilt. The sick man’s eyes and face expressed impatience. He made an effort to glance at the servant who was standing fixedly at the head of the bed.

      “His excellency wants to turn on his other side,” the servant whispered and stepped up in order to turn the count’s heavy body to face the wall.

      Pierre stood up in order to assist the servant.

      While they were turning the count over, one of his arms fell back helplessly, and he made a vain effort to pull it across. Whether or not the count noticed the glance of horror with which Pierre watched that helpless arm, or whether some other fleeting thought passed through his dying mind at that moment, he looked at the insubordinate arm, at the expression of horror on Pierre’s face, then again at the arm, and a weak smile of suffering, quite unsuited to his features, flickered across his face, seeming to express mockery at his own helplessness. At the sight of that smile, Pierre unexpectedly felt a trembling in his chest and a tingling in his nose, and tears clouded his vision. They turned the sick man onto his side, facing the wall. He sighed.

      “He has fallen asleep,” said Anna Mikhailovna, noticing one of the princesses coming to take their place. “Let us go.”

      Pierre left the room.

      XXXI