When Prince Andréy entered the study the old man in his old-age spectacles and white dressing gown, in which he received no one but his son, sat at the table writing. He glanced round.
“Going?” And he went on writing.
“I’ve come to say goodbye.”
“Kiss me here,” and he touched his cheek: “Thanks, thanks!”
“What do you thank me for?”
“For not dillydallying and not hanging to a woman’s apron strings. The Service before everything. Thanks, thanks!” And he went on writing, so that his quill spluttered and squeaked. “If you have anything to say, say it. These two things can be done together,” he added.
“About my wife … I am ashamed as it is to leave her on your hands. …”
“Why talk nonsense? Say what you want.”
“When her confinement is due, send to Moscow for an accoucheur . … Let him be here. …”
The old prince stopped writing and, as if not understanding, fixed his stern eyes on his son.
“I know that no one can help if nature does not do her work,” said Prince Andréy, evidently confused. “I know that out of a million cases only one goes wrong, but it is her fancy and mine. They have been telling her things. She has had a dream and is frightened.”
“Hm … Hm …” muttered the old prince to himself, finishing what he was writing. “I’ll do it.”
He signed with a flourish and suddenly turning to his son began to laugh.