War And Peace

At the moment when the sixth anglaise was being danced in the Rostovs’ hall to the badly timed strains of a weary orchestra, and exhausted cooks and waiters were getting supper ready, Count Bezukhov suffered his sixth stroke. The doctors pronounced no hope of recovery, the sick man was given silent confession and Holy Communion, and the last rites were prepared. As always on such occasions, there was much coming and going in the house and a dreadful air of expectancy. Outside, hordes of undertakers hid beyond the gates, avoiding any approaching carriages, but eagerly anticipating a nice fat order for the count’s funeral. The military governor of Moscow, who had sent a string of aides to inquire after the count’s condition, came in person that evening to take leave of this famous grandee of Catherine’s court, Count Bezukhov.

The magnificent reception-room was full. Everyone stood up respectfully when the governor emerged from the sick room after half an hour alone with the sick man. He gave a curt nod and then made his escape as quickly as possible from the onlooking doctors, church dignitaries and relatives. Prince Vasily, who had grown thinner and paler over recent days, escorted the governor out, whispering to him several times. After seeing him on his way, the prince sat down alone on a chair in the hall, crossed one leg high over the other, leant an elbow on his knee and covered his eyes with his hand. He sat like that for some time and then got to his feet and hurried off faster than usual down the long corridor, looking around in some alarm, and heading for the rear of the house and the eldest princess.

Those left behind in the dimly lit room murmured occasionally in hushed tones, but all paused and watched with intense interest whenever the door to the dying man’s room creaked open as someone went in or out.

‘The human span,’ said a little old man, some sort of cleric, to a lady who had come to sit by him and was now listening naively to everything he said, ‘that span is determined and may not be exceeded.’

‘I was wondering whether it might be too late for the last rites?’ inquired the lady, using his clerical title, herself apparently devoid of any opinion on this matter.

‘It is all a great mystery, madam,’ answered the cleric, stroking his bald head with its few thin strands of greying hair combed across.

‘What? Did I hear you say the governor’s been here?’ someone asked at the other end of the room. ‘Doesn’t look his age, does he?’

‘No, he’s over sixty! I gather the count can’t recognize anyone. Are they still giving him the last rites?’

‘I knew a man who had the last rites seven times.’

The second princess emerged from the sick room with tears in her eyes, and sat next to Dr Lorrain, who had arranged himself in a pose under a portrait of Catherine the Great and was leaning against the table.

‘It’s a very nice day,’ said the doctor in reply to a question about the weather, ‘a very nice day, Princess, but then being in Moscow is just like being in the country.’

‘Is it really?’ said the princess with a sigh. ‘Now, can we give him anything to drink?’ Lorrain paused for reflection.

‘Has he had his medicine?’

‘Yes.’

The doctor consulted his watch.

‘Take a glass of boiled water and add a pinch of cream of tartar.’ (His delicate fingers showed her what a pinch meant.)

‘Zere ’as neffer bin a case,’ said a German doctor to an adjutant in his broken Russian, ‘zat anypody liffed on after ze t’ird sdroke.’

‘And didn’t he look after himself!’ said the adjutant. ‘And who’s going to inherit all this?’ he added in a whisper.

‘Ze customers vill come,’ smiled the German, in reply.

The door creaked, and everyone turned. It was the second princess, who had made up the drink prescribed by the doctor and was now taking it in. The German doctor went over to Lorrain.

‘Can he hold out till tomorrow morning?’ asked the German, speaking French with a ghastly accent.

Lorrain pursed his lips and wagged a stern finger in front of his nose to say no.

‘During the night, at the latest,’ he said softly, with a courteous smile of smug confidence in his unique ability to interpret and transmit the precise condition of his patient so clearly. Then he stood up and walked away.

Meanwhile Prince Vasily had opened the door of the princess’s room, which was in semi-darkness with only two small lamps burning before the icons. There was a pleasing scent of incense and flowers. The room was filled with small pieces of furniture, tiny knick-knacks, bookcases and tables. White covers on a high feather-bed were just visible behind a screen. A little dog yapped.

‘Is that you, Cousin?’

She got up and smoothed her hair, which was always, even now, so extraordinarily smooth that it seemed to have been made out of one piece along with her head and given a coat of gloss.

‘Has anything happened?’ she asked. ‘You startled me.’