“I will do all that, father,” he said.

“I am sure to die before you. See, here are my notes, to be given to the Emperor after my death. Now here, see, is a bank note and a letter: this is a prize for any one who writes a history of Suvorov’s wars. Send it to the academy. Here are my remarks, read them after I am gone for your own sake; you will find them profitable.”

Andrey did not tell his father that he probably had many years before him. He knew there was no need to say that.

“I will do all that, father,” he said.

“Well, now, good-bye!” He gave his son his hand to kiss and embraced him. “Remember one thing, Prince Andrey, if you are killed, it will be a grief to me in my old age…” He paused abruptly, and all at once in a shrill voice went on: “But if I learn that you have not behaved like the son of Nikolay Bolkonsky, I shall be … ashamed,” he shrilled.

“You needn’t have said that to me, father,” said his son, smiling.

The old man did not speak.

“There’s another thing I wanted to ask you,” went on Prince Andrey; “if I’m killed, and if I have a son, don’t let him slip out of your hands, as I said to you yesterday; let him grow up with you…please.”

“Not give him up to your wife?” said the old man, and he laughed.

They stood mutually facing each other. The old man’s sharp eyes were fixed on his son’s eyes. A quiver passed over the lower part of the old prince’s face.

“We have said good-bye…go along!” he said suddenly. “Go along!” he cried in a loud and wrathful voice, opening the study door.