WHEN MIHAIL IVANITCH went back to the study with the letter, the old prince was sitting in his spectacles with a shade over his eyes and shades on the candles, at his open bureau, surrounded by papers, held a long distance off. He was in a rather solemn attitude, reading the papers (the “remarks,” as he called them) which were to be given to the Tsar after his death.

When Mihail Ivanitch went in, there were tears in his eyes, called up by the memory of the time when he had written what he was now reading. He took the letter out of Mihail Ivanitch's hand, put it in his pocket, folded up his papers and called in Alpatitch, who had been waiting a long while to see him.

He had noted down on a sheet of paper what he wanted in Smolensk, and he began walking up and down the room, as he gave his instructions to Alpatitch, standing at the door.

“First, letter paper, do you hear, eight quires, like this pattern, you see; gilt edged … take the pattern, so as to be sure to match it; varnish, sealing-wax — according to Mihail Ivanitch's list.”

He walked up and down the room and glanced at the memorandum.

“Then deliver the letter about the enrolment to the governor in person.”

Then bolts for the doors of the new building were wanted, and must be of a new pattern, which the old prince had himself designed. Then an iron-bound box was to be ordered for keeping his will in.

Giving Alpatitch his instructions occupied over two hours. The prince still would not let him go. He sat down, sank into thought, and closing his eyes, dropped into a doze. Alpatitch made a slight movement.

“Well, go along, go along,” said the old prince; “if anything is wanted I'll send.”

Alpatitch went away. The prince went back to the bureau; glancing into it, he passed his hand over his papers, closed it again, and sat down to the table to write to the governor.

It was late when he sealed the letter and got up. He was sleepy, but he knew he would not sleep, and that he would be haunted by most miserable thoughts in bed. He called Tihon, and went through the rooms with him, to tell him where to make up his bed for that night. He walked about, measuring every corner.

There was no place that pleased him, but worst of all was the couch in the study that he had been used to. That couch had become an object of dread to him, probably from the painful thoughts he had thought lying on it. No place was quite right, but best of them all was the corner in the divan-room, behind the piano; he had never slept there yet.

Tihon brought the bedstead in with the footmen, and began putting it up.

“That's not right, that's not right!” cried the old prince. With his own hands he moved the bed an inch further from the corner, and then closer to it again.

“Well, at last, I have done everything; now I shall rest,” thought the prince, and he left it to Tihon to undress him.

Frowning with vexation at the effort he had to make to take off his coat and trousers, the prince undressed, dropped heavily down on his bed, and seemed to sink into thought, staring contemptuously at his yellow, withered legs. He was not really thinking, but simply pausing before the effort to lift his legs up and lay them in the bed. “Ugh, how hard it is! Ugh, if these toils could soon be over, and if you would let me go!” he mused. Pinching his lips tightly, he made that effort for the twenty thousandth time, and lay down. But he had hardly lain down, when all at once the bed seemed to rock regularly to and fro under him, as though it were heaving and jolting. He had this sensation almost every night. He opened his eyes that were closing themselves.

“No peace, damn them!” he grumbled, with inward rage at some persons unknown. “Yes, yes, there was something else of importance — something of great importance I was saving up to think of in bed. The bolts? No, I did speak about them. No, there was something, something in the drawing-room. Princess Marya talked some nonsense. Dessalle — he's a fool — said something, something in my pocket — I don't remember.”

“Tishka! what were we talking about at dinner?”

“About Prince Mihail …”

“Stay, stay” — the prince slapped his hand down on the table. “Yes, I know, Prince Andrey's letter. Princess Marya read it. Dessalle said something about Vitebsk. I'll read it now.”

He told Tihon to get the letter out of his pocket, and to move up the little table with the lemonade and the spiral wax candle on it, and putting on his spectacles he began reading. Only then in the stillness of the night, as he read the letter, in the faint light under the green shade, for the first time he grasped for an instant its meaning. “The French are at Vitebsk, in four days' march they may be at Smolensk; perhaps they are there by now. Tishka!” Tihon jumped up. “No, nothing, nothing!” he cried.

He put the letter under the candlestick and closed his eyes. And there rose before his mind the Danube, bright midday, the reeds, the Russian camp, and he, a young general, without one wrinkle on his brow, bold, gay, ruddy, entering Potyomkin's gay-coloured tent, and the burning sensation of envy of the favourite stirs within him as keenly as at the time. And he recalls every word uttered at that first interview with Potyomkin. And then he sees a plump, short woman with a sallow, fat face, the mother empress, her smiles and words at her first gracious reception for him; and then her face as she lay on the bier, and the quarrel with Zubov over her coffin for the right to kiss her hand

“Oh, to make haste, to make haste back to that time, and oh, that the present might soon be over and they might leave me in peace!”

当米哈伊尔·伊万内奇拿着信回到书房的时候，公爵戴着眼镜和眼罩在蜡烛罩灯的前面，靠近打开的办公桌傍边坐着，拿着文件的手伸得很远，摆出一副有点儿庄严的姿势，在读他死后将呈送给皇帝御览的文件（他称之为说明书）。

米哈伊尔·伊万内奇进房时，公爵含着眼泪回忆他当初写的。而现在他看着的文件。后来他从米哈伊尔·伊万内奇手中拿到信，便放到衣袋里，搁好文件，才把等了好久的阿尔帕特奇叫来。

他在一张小纸条上写着去斯摩棱斯克要办的事，接着他在房里，一面从站在门边等候的阿尔帕特奇面前来回走动，一面发出命令。

“听着！信笺，要八帖，就是这个样品；金边的……一定要照这个样；清漆，火漆（封蜡）——按照米哈伊尔·伊万内奇开的单子办。”

他在房里走了一会儿，看了看备忘录。

“然后把关于证书的信亲自交给省长。”

随后是新房子门上需要的门闩，这些闩一定要照公爵亲自所定的式样去作。再就是定做一只盛放遗嘱的，且有装帧的匣子。

对阿尔帕特奇作的指示延续了两个多小时，公爵仍然没有把他放走。他坐下来沉思，闭目打盹。阿尔帕特奇不时动弹一下。

“好啦，走吧，走吧；如果还要什么，我会派人来叫你的。”

于是阿尔帕特奇出去了。公爵又到办公桌前，向它里面看了一下，摸了摸他的文件，然后又关上，便坐在桌傍给省长写信。

当他封好了信，站起来的时候，已经很晚了。他想要睡觉，但是他知道他睡不着，在床上会出现最坏的想法。他叫来了吉洪，同他一起走了几个房间，以便告诉他今晚把床放到哪里。他走来走去，打量着每个屋角。

他觉得到处都不好。最不好的是书房里他睡惯了的那张沙发。他觉得这张沙发很可怕，大概是因为他躺在上面反复思量过使人极不愉快的事情。什么地方都不好，但是最好的地方还是休息室大钢琴后面的那个角落，因为他还有在这里睡过。

吉洪和一个仆人搬来一张床，开始铺起来。

“不是这样！不是这样！”公爵大声说罢，便亲自把床拉得远离墙角的四分之一，然后又拉近一些。

“好，我终于把事做完了，现在我要休息了。”公爵想了想说，于是他让吉洪给他脱衣服。

由于脱上衣和裤子需要费力，公爵烦恼地皱着眉头，脱了衣服，他困难地往床上一坐，似乎在沉思，轻蔑地瞅着他那焦黄枯瘦的双腿。他不是在沉思，而是在拖延把两条腿费力地抬起来上床的时间。“啊呀；多么困难！啊呀，哪怕快一点结束这些劳动也好！您放我走吧！”他想，他咬紧嘴唇，费了九牛二虎之力才躺了下来。但是他刚一躺下，便突然觉得整个床就在他身子下面均匀地晃来晃去着，好像在沉重地喘气和冲撞。几乎每天夜里都是这样。他睁开了刚闭上的眼睛。

“不得安宁，该死的东西！”他愤怒地不知对谁埋怨了几句。“是的，是的，还有一件重要的事，而且非常重要，我留待夜里上了床才办的。门闩吗？不是，这件事我已交待过了。不是，大概还有那么一件事，在客厅里提到过的。玛丽亚公爵小姐不知因为什么撒了谎。德萨尔——这个傻瓜，不知说了点什么。衣袋里有点东西，——我记不得了。”

“季什卡！吃饭的时候讲到过什么？“

“讲到过米哈伊尔公爵……”

“别说了，别说了。”公爵用手拍桌子。“是的，我知道了，安德烈公爵的信，玛丽亚公爵小姐还念过。德萨尔不知说过维捷布斯克什么。现在我来念。”

他吩咐人把信从衣袋里拿出来，并把一张摆着一杯柠檬水和一支螺纹蜡烛的小桌子移到床边，便戴上眼镜，开始看起信来。在这个时候，他只有在夜深人静之中，在蓝灯罩下的弱光里看着信，这才第一次瞬间悟出信里说的意思。

“法军到了维捷布斯克，再过四昼夜的行程，他们就可能到斯摩棱斯克了；也许他们已经到那里了。”

“季什卡！”吉洪一跃而起。“不，不要了，不要了！”他大声说。

他把信藏在烛台下面，闭上了眼睛。于是他想起了多瑙河，明朗的中午，芦苇，俄国营地；他这个年轻的将军，脸上没有一条皱纹，精力充沛，心情愉快，面色红润，走进波将金的彩饰帐篷，对朝廷这个宠臣如火焚似的嫉妒心理强烈，现在仍然像当时一样使他激动。从而他回想起和波将金初次见面时所说的话，这时他眼前又出现那位个儿不高，胖脸蜡黄的皇太后，第一次亲切地接见他时露出的笑容和她说的话；同时他又回想起来她在灵台上的面容，以及在御棺傍边为了吻她的手的权利而与祖博夫之间发生冲突的情景。

“唉，快点，快点回到那个时代去吧，让现在的一切快一点，快一点结束吧！叫他们不要打搅我，让我安静一下吧！”