Sofia Alexandrovna and Natasha arrived at the general’s. They waited
long in the quiet, cold-looking reception-room; the glossy parquet
floor shone, portraits in heavy gilt frames hung on the walls, and the
careful steps of uniformed officials, coming through a large white
door, resounded from time to time.
At last they were received. The general listened most amiably, but
declined emphatically to do anything. He rose, clinked his spurs, and
stretched himself to his full height; He stood there tall, erect, his
breast decorated with orders, his head grey, his face ruddy, with black
eyebrows and broad nose.
In vain the humiliating entreaties.
Pale, the proud mother knelt before the general and, weeping bitterly,
she kissed his hands and at last threw herself at his feet—all in vain.
She received the cold answer:
“I am sorry, madam, it is impossible. I understand your affliction, I
sympathize fully; with your sorrow, but what can I do? Whose fault is
it? Upon me lies a great responsibility toward my Emperor and my
country. I have my duty—I can’t help you. It is against yourself that
you ought to bring your reproaches—you’ve brought him up.”
Of what avail the tears of a poor mother? Strike thy head upon the
parquet floor, bend thy face to the black glitter of his boots; or else
depart, proud and silent. It is all the same, he can do nothing. Thy
tears and thy entreaties do not touch him, thy curses do not offend
him. He is a kind man, he is the loving father of a family, but his
upright martial soul does not tremble before the word death. More than
once he had risked his life boldly in battle—what is the life of a
conspirator to him?
“But he is a mere boy!”
“No, madam, this is not a childish prank. I am sorry.”
He walks away. She hears the measured clinking of his spurs. The
parquet floor reflects dimly his tall, erect figure.
“General, have pity!”
The cold, white door has swung to after him. She hears the quiet,
pleasant voice of a young official. He raises her from the floor and
helps her to find her way out.