"It is dawn," thought Pierre. "But that’s not what I want. I want to
hear and understand my benefactor’s words." Again he covered himself up
with his cloak, but now neither the lodge nor his benefactor was there.
There were only thoughts clearly expressed in words, thoughts that
someone was uttering or that he himself was formulating.
Afterwards when he recalled those thoughts Pierre was convinced that
someone outside himself had spoken them, though the impressions of that
day had evoked them. He had never, it seemed to him, been able to think
and express his thoughts like that when awake.
"To endure war is the most difficult subordination of man’s freedom to
the law of God," the voice had said. "Simplicity is submission to the
will of God; you cannot escape from Him. And they are simple. They do
not talk, but act. The spoken word is silver but the unspoken is golden.
Man can be master of nothing while he fears death, but he who does not
fear it possesses all. If there were no suffering, man would not know
his limitations, would not know himself. The hardest thing (Pierre went
on thinking, or hearing, in his dream) is to be able in your soul to
unite the meaning of all. To unite all?" he asked himself. "No, not
to unite. Thoughts cannot be united, but to harness all these thoughts
together is what we need! Yes, one must harness them, must harness
them!" he repeated to himself with inward rapture, feeling that these
words and they alone expressed what he wanted to say and solved the
question that tormented him.
"Yes, one must harness, it is time to harness."
"Time to harness, time to harness, your excellency! Your excellency!"
some voice was repeating. "We must harness, it is time to harness...."
It was the voice of the groom, trying to wake him. The sun shone
straight into Pierre’s face. He glanced at the dirty innyard in the
middle of which soldiers were watering their lean horses at the pump
while carts were passing out of the gate. Pierre turned away with
repugnance, and closing his eyes quickly fell back on the carriage seat.
"No, I don’t want that, I don’t want to see and understand that. I want
to understand what was revealing itself to me in my dream. One second
more and I should have understood it all! But what am I to do? Harness,
but how can I harness everything?" and Pierre felt with horror that the
meaning of all he had seen and thought in the dream had been destroyed.
The groom, the coachman, and the innkeeper told Pierre that an officer
had come with news that the French were already near Mozhaysk and that
our men were leaving it.
Pierre got up and, having told them to harness and overtake him, went on
foot through the town.
The troops were moving on, leaving about ten thousand wounded behind
them. There were wounded in the yards, at the windows of the houses, and
the streets were crowded with them. In the streets, around carts that
were to take some of the wounded away, shouts, curses, and blows could
be heard. Pierre offered the use of his carriage, which had overtaken
him, to a wounded general he knew, and drove with him to Moscow. On the
way Pierre was told of the death of his brother-in-law Anatole and of
that of Prince Andrew.
CHAPTER X
On the thirtieth of August Pierre reached Moscow. Close to the gates of
the city he was met by Count Rostopchin’s adjutant.
"We have been looking for you everywhere," said the adjutant. "The count
wants to see you particularly. He asks you to come to him at once on a
very important matter."
Without going home, Pierre took a cab and drove to see the Moscow
commander in chief.
Count Rostopchin had only that morning returned to town from his summer
villa at Sokolniki. The anteroom and reception room of his house
were full of officials who had been summoned or had come for orders.
Vasilchikov and Platov had already seen the count and explained to him
that it was impossible to defend Moscow and that it would have to be
surrendered. Though this news was being concealed from the inhabitants,
the officials - the heads of the various government departments - knew that
Moscow would soon be in the enemy’s hands, just as Count Rostopchin
himself knew it, and to escape personal responsibility they had all
come to the governor to ask how they were to deal with their various
departments.
As Pierre was entering the reception room a courier from the army came
out of Rostopchin’s private room.
In answer to questions with which he was greeted, the courier made a
despairing gesture with his hand and passed through the room.
While waiting in the reception room Pierre with weary eyes watched the
various officials, old and young, military and civilian, who were there.
They all seemed dissatisfied and uneasy. Pierre went up to a group of
men, one of whom he knew. After greeting Pierre they continued their
conversation.
"If they’re sent out and brought back again later on it will do no harm,
but as things are now one can’t answer for anything."
"But you see what he writes..." said another, pointing to a printed
sheet he held in his hand.
"That’s another matter. That’s necessary for the people," said the
first.
"What is it?" asked Pierre.
"Oh, it’s a fresh broadsheet."
Pierre took it and began reading.
His Serene Highness has passed through Mozhaysk in order to join up with
the troops moving toward him and has taken up a strong position where
the enemy will not soon attack him. Forty-eight guns with ammunition
have been sent him from here, and his Serene Highness says he will
defend Moscow to the last drop of blood and is even ready to fight in
the streets. Do not be upset, brothers, that the law courts are closed;
things have to be put in order, and we will deal with villains in our
own way! When the time comes I shall want both town and peasant lads and
will raise the cry a day or two beforehand, but they are not wanted yet
so I hold my peace. An ax will be useful, a hunting spear not bad, but a
three-pronged fork will be best of all: a Frenchman is no heavier than a
sheaf of rye. Tomorrow after dinner I shall take the Iberian icon of
the Mother of God to the wounded in the Catherine Hospital where we will
have some water blessed. That will help them to get well quicker. I,
too, am well now: one of my eyes was sore but now I am on the lookout
with both.
"But military men have told me that it is impossible to fight in the
town," said Pierre, "and that the position..."
"Well, of course! That’s what we were saying," replied the first
speaker.
"And what does he mean by ‘One of my eyes was sore but now I am on the
lookout with both’?" asked Pierre.
"The count had a sty," replied the adjutant smiling, "and was very much
upset when I told him people had come to ask what was the matter with
him. By the by, Count," he added suddenly, addressing Pierre with a
smile, "we heard that you have family troubles and that the countess,
your wife..."
"I have heard nothing," Pierre replied unconcernedly. "But what have you
heard?"
"Oh, well, you know people often invent things. I only say what I
heard."
"But what did you hear?"
"Well, they say," continued the adjutant with the same smile, "that
the countess, your wife, is preparing to go abroad. I expect it’s
nonsense...."
"Possibly," remarked Pierre, looking about him absent-mindedly. "And who
is that?" he asked, indicating a short old man in a clean blue peasant
overcoat, with a big snow-white beard and eyebrows and a ruddy face.
"He? That’s a tradesman, that is to say, he’s the restaurant
keeper, Vereshchagin. Perhaps you have heard of that affair with the
proclamation."
"Oh, so that is Vereshchagin!" said Pierre, looking at the firm, calm
face of the old man and seeking any indication of his being a traitor.
"That’s not he himself, that’s the father of the fellow who wrote the
proclamation," said the adjutant. "The young man is in prison and I
expect it will go hard with him."
An old gentleman wearing a star and another official, a German wearing a
cross round his neck, approached the speaker.
"It’s a complicated story, you know," said the adjutant. "That
proclamation appeared about two months ago. The count was informed of
it. He gave orders to investigate the matter. Gabriel Ivanovich
here made the inquiries. The proclamation had passed through exactly
sixty-three hands. He asked one, ‘From whom did you get it?’ ‘From
so-and-so.’ He went to the next one. ‘From whom did you get it?’ and so
on till he reached Vereshchagin, a half educated tradesman, you know, ‘a
pet of a trader,’" said the adjutant smiling. "They asked him, ‘Who gave
it you?’ And the point is that we knew whom he had it from. He could
only have had it from the Postmaster. But evidently they had come to
some understanding. He replied: ‘From no one; I made it up myself.’
They threatened and questioned him, but he stuck to that: ‘I made it
up myself.’ And so it was reported to the count, who sent for the man.
‘From whom did you get the proclamation?’ ‘I wrote it myself.’ Well, you
know the count," said the adjutant cheerfully, with a smile of pride,
"he flared up dreadfully - and just think of the fellow’s audacity, lying,
and obstinacy!"
"And the count wanted him to say it was from Klyucharev? I understand!"
said Pierre.
"Not at all," rejoined the adjutant in dismay. "Klyucharev had his own
sins to answer for without that and that is why he has been banished.
But the point is that the count was much annoyed. ‘How could you have
written it yourself?’ said he, and he took up the Hamburg Gazette that
was lying on the table. ‘Here it is! You did not write it yourself but
translated it, and translated it abominably, because you don’t even know
French, you fool.’ And what do you think? ‘No,’ said he, ‘I have not
read any papers, I made it up myself.’ ‘If that’s so, you’re a traitor
and I’ll have you tried, and you’ll be hanged! Say from whom you had
it.’ ‘I have seen no papers, I made it up myself.’ And that was the end
of it. The count had the father fetched, but the fellow stuck to it.
He was sent for trial and condemned to hard labor, I believe. Now the
father has come to intercede for him. But he’s a good-for-nothing lad!
You know that sort of tradesman’s son, a dandy and lady-killer. He
attended some lectures somewhere and imagines that the devil is no match
for him. That’s the sort of fellow he is. His father keeps a cookshop
here by the Stone Bridge, and you know there was a large icon of God
Almighty painted with a scepter in one hand and an orb in the other.
Well, he took that icon home with him for a few days and what did he do?
He found some scoundrel of a painter..."
CHAPTER XI
In the middle of this fresh tale Pierre was summoned to the commander in
chief.
When he entered the private room Count Rostopchin, puckering his face,
was rubbing his forehead and eyes with his hand. A short man was saying
something, but when Pierre entered he stopped speaking and went out.
"Ah, how do you do, great warrior?" said Rostopchin as soon as the short
man had left the room. "We have heard of your prowess. But that’s not
the point. Between ourselves, mon cher, do you belong to the Masons?" he
went on severely, as though there were something wrong about it which
he nevertheless intended to pardon. Pierre remained silent. "I am well
informed, my friend, but I am aware that there are Masons and I hope
that you are not one of those who on pretense of saving mankind wish to
ruin Russia."
"Yes, I am a Mason," Pierre replied.
"There, you see, mon cher! I expect you know that Messrs. Speranski and
Magnitski have been deported to their proper place. Mr. Klyucharev has
been treated in the same way, and so have others who on the plea of
building up the temple of Solomon have tried to destroy the temple of
their fatherland. You can understand that there are reasons for this and
that I could not have exiled the Postmaster had he not been a harmful
person. It has now come to my knowledge that you lent him your carriage
for his removal from town, and that you have even accepted papers from
him for safe custody. I like you and don’t wish you any harm and - as
you are only half my age - I advise you, as a father would, to cease
all communication with men of that stamp and to leave here as soon as
possible."
"But what did Klyucharev do wrong, Count?" asked Pierre.
"That is for me to know, but not for you to ask," shouted Rostopchin.
"If he is accused of circulating Napoleon’s proclamation it is not
proved that he did so," said Pierre without looking at Rostopchin, "and
Vereshchagin..."
"There we are!" Rostopchin shouted at Pierre louder than before,
frowning suddenly. "Vereshchagin is a renegade and a traitor who will
be punished as he deserves," said he with the vindictive heat with which
people speak when recalling an insult. "But I did not summon you to
discuss my actions, but to give you advice - or an order if you prefer it.
I beg you to leave the town and break off all communication with such
men as Klyucharev. And I will knock the nonsense out of anybody" - but
probably realizing that he was shouting at Bezukhov who so far was not
guilty of anything, he added, taking Pierre’s hand in a friendly manner,
"We are on the eve of a public disaster and I haven’t time to be polite
to everybody who has business with me. My head is sometimes in a whirl.
Well, mon cher, what are you doing personally?"
"Why, nothing," answered Pierre without raising his eyes or changing the
thoughtful expression of his face.
The count frowned.
"A word of friendly advice, mon cher. Be off as soon as you can, that’s
all I have to tell you. Happy he who has ears to hear. Good-by, my dear
fellow. Oh, by the by!" he shouted through the doorway after Pierre,
"is it true that the countess has fallen into the clutches of the holy
fathers of the Society of Jesus?"
Pierre did not answer and left Rostopchin’s room more sullen and angry
than he had ever before shown himself.
When he reached home it was already getting dark. Some eight people had
come to see him that evening: the secretary of a committee, the colonel
of his battalion, his steward, his major-domo, and various petitioners.
They all had business with Pierre and wanted decisions from him. Pierre
did not understand and was not interested in any of these questions and
only answered them in order to get rid of these people. When left alone
at last he opened and read his wife’s letter.
"They, the soldiers at the battery, Prince Andrew killed... that old
man... Simplicity is submission to God. Suffering is necessary... the
meaning of all... one must harness... my wife is getting married... One
must forget and understand..." And going to his bed he threw himself on
it without undressing and immediately fell asleep.
When he awoke next morning the major-domo came to inform him that a
special messenger, a police officer, had come from Count Rostopchin to
know whether Count Bezukhov had left or was leaving the town.
A dozen persons who had business with Pierre were awaiting him in the
drawing room. Pierre dressed hurriedly and, instead of going to see
them, went to the back porch and out through the gate.
From that time till the end of the destruction of Moscow no one of
Bezukhov’s household, despite all the search they made, saw Pierre again
or knew where he was.
CHAPTER XII
The Rostovs remained in Moscow till the first of September, that is,
till the eve of the enemy’s entry into the city.
After Petya had joined Obolenski’s regiment of Cossacks and left for
Belaya Tserkov where that regiment was forming, the countess was seized
with terror. The thought that both her sons were at the war, had both
gone from under her wing, that today or tomorrow either or both of them
might be killed like the three sons of one of her acquaintances, struck
her that summer for the first time with cruel clearness. She tried to
get Nicholas back and wished to go herself to join Petya, or to get
him an appointment somewhere in Petersburg, but neither of these proved
possible. Petya could not return unless his regiment did so or unless
he was transferred to another regiment on active service. Nicholas was
somewhere with the army and had not sent a word since his last letter,
in which he had given a detailed account of his meeting with Princess
Mary. The countess did not sleep at night, or when she did fall asleep
dreamed that she saw her sons lying dead. After many consultations and
conversations, the count at last devised means to tranquillize her. He
got Petya transferred from Obolenski’s regiment to Bezukhov’s, which was
in training near Moscow. Though Petya would remain in the service, this
transfer would give the countess the consolation of seeing at least one
of her sons under her wing, and she hoped to arrange matters for her
Petya so as not to let him go again, but always get him appointed to
places where he could not possibly take part in a battle. As long as
Nicholas alone was in danger the countess imagined that she loved her
first-born more than all her other children and even reproached herself
for it; but when her youngest: the scapegrace who had been bad at
lessons, was always breaking things in the house and making himself a
nuisance to everybody, that snub-nosed Petya with his merry black eyes
and fresh rosy cheeks where soft down was just beginning to show - when
he was thrown amid those big, dreadful, cruel men who were fighting
somewhere about something and apparently finding pleasure in it - then
his mother thought she loved him more, much more, than all her other
children. The nearer the time came for Petya to return, the more uneasy
grew the countess. She began to think she would never live to see such
happiness. The presence of Sonya, of her beloved Natasha, or even of
her husband irritated her. "What do I want with them? I want no one but
Petya," she thought.
At the end of August the Rostovs received another letter from Nicholas.
He wrote from the province of Voronezh where he had been sent to procure
remounts, but that letter did not set the countess at ease. Knowing that
one son was out of danger she became the more anxious about Petya.
Though by the twentieth of August nearly all the Rostovs’ acquaintances
had left Moscow, and though everybody tried to persuade the countess to
get away as quickly as possible, she would not hear of leaving before
her treasure, her adored Petya, returned. On the twenty-eighth of August
he arrived. The passionate tenderness with which his mother received him
did not please the sixteen-year-old officer. Though she concealed from
him her intention of keeping him under her wing, Petya guessed her
designs, and instinctively fearing that he might give way to emotion
when with her - might "become womanish" as he termed it to himself - he
treated her coldly, avoided her, and during his stay in Moscow attached
himself exclusively to Natasha for whom he had always had a particularly
brotherly tenderness, almost lover-like.
Owing to the count’s customary carelessness nothing was ready for their
departure by the twenty-eighth of August and the carts that were to
come from their Ryazan and Moscow estates to remove their household
belongings did not arrive till the thirtieth.
From the twenty-eighth till the thirty-first all Moscow was in a bustle
and commotion. Every day thousands of men wounded at Borodino were
brought in by the Dorogomilov gate and taken to various parts of Moscow,
and thousands of carts conveyed the inhabitants and their possessions
out by the other gates. In spite of Rostopchin’s broadsheets, or because
of them or independently of them, the strangest and most contradictory
rumors were current in the town. Some said that no one was to be allowed
to leave the city, others on the contrary said that all the icons had
been taken out of the churches and everybody was to be ordered to leave.
Some said there had been another battle after Borodino at which the
French had been routed, while others on the contrary reported that the
Russian army had been destroyed. Some talked about the Moscow militia
which, preceded by the clergy, would go to the Three Hills; others
whispered that Augustin had been forbidden to leave, that traitors had
been seized, that the peasants were rioting and robbing people on their
way from Moscow, and so on. But all this was only talk; in reality
(though the Council of Fili, at which it was decided to abandon Moscow,
had not yet been held) both those who went away and those who remained
behind felt, though they did not show it, that Moscow would certainly
be abandoned, and that they ought to get away as quickly as possible and
save their belongings. It was felt that everything would suddenly break
up and change, but up to the first of September nothing had done so.
As a criminal who is being led to execution knows that he must die
immediately, but yet looks about him and straightens the cap that is
awry on his head, so Moscow involuntarily continued its wonted life,
though it knew that the time of its destruction was near when the
conditions of life to which its people were accustomed to submit would
be completely upset.
During the three days preceding the occupation of Moscow the whole
Rostov family was absorbed in various activities. The head of the
family, Count Ilya Rostov, continually drove about the city collecting
the current rumors from all sides and gave superficial and hasty orders
at home about the preparations for their departure.
The countess watched the things being packed, was dissatisfied with
everything, was constantly in pursuit of Petya who was always running
away from her, and was jealous of Natasha with whom he spent all his
time. Sonya alone directed the practical side of matters by getting
things packed. But of late Sonya had been particularly sad and silent.
Nicholas’ letter in which he mentioned Princess Mary had elicited, in
her presence, joyous comments from the countess, who saw an intervention
of Providence in this meeting of the princess and Nicholas.
"I was never pleased at Bolkonski’s engagement to Natasha," said the
countess, "but I always wanted Nicholas to marry the princess, and had a
presentiment that it would happen. What a good thing it would be!"
Sonya felt that this was true: that the only possibility of retrieving
the Rostovs’ affairs was by Nicholas marrying a rich woman, and that the
princess was a good match. It was very bitter for her. But despite
her grief, or perhaps just because of it, she took on herself all the
difficult work of directing the storing and packing of their things and
was busy for whole days. The count and countess turned to her when they
had any orders to give. Petya and Natasha on the contrary, far from
helping their parents, were generally a nuisance and a hindrance to
everyone. Almost all day long the house resounded with their running
feet, their cries, and their spontaneous laughter. They laughed and were
gay not because there was any reason to laugh, but because gaiety and
mirth were in their hearts and so everything that happened was a cause
for gaiety and laughter to them. Petya was in high spirits because
having left home a boy he had returned (as everybody told him) a fine
young man, because he was at home, because he had left Belaya Tserkov
where there was no hope of soon taking part in a battle and had come to
Moscow where there was to be fighting in a few days, and chiefly because
Natasha, whose lead he always followed, was in high spirits. Natasha was
gay because she had been sad too long and now nothing reminded her of
the cause of her sadness, and because she was feeling well. She was also
happy because she had someone to adore her: the adoration of others was
a lubricant the wheels of her machine needed to make them run freely - and
Petya adored her. Above all, they were gay because there was a war near
Moscow, there would be fighting at the town gates, arms were being
given out, everybody was escaping - going away somewhere, and in general
something extraordinary was happening, and that is always exciting,
especially to the young.
CHAPTER XIII
On Saturday, the thirty-first of August, everything in the Rostovs’
house seemed topsy-turvy. All the doors were open, all the furniture was
being carried out or moved about, and the mirrors and pictures had been
taken down. There were trunks in the rooms, and hay, wrapping paper, and
ropes were scattered about. The peasants and house serfs carrying out
the things were treading heavily on the parquet floors. The yard was
crowded with peasant carts, some loaded high and already corded up,
others still empty.
The voices and footsteps of the many servants and of the peasants who
had come with the carts resounded as they shouted to one another in
the yard and in the house. The count had been out since morning. The
countess had a headache brought on by all the noise and turmoil and was
lying down in the new sitting room with a vinegar compress on her head.
Petya was not at home, he had gone to visit a friend with whom he meant
to obtain a transfer from the militia to the active army. Sonya was in
the ballroom looking after the packing of the glass and china. Natasha
was sitting on the floor of her dismantled room with dresses, ribbons,
and scarves strewn all about her, gazing fixedly at the floor and
holding in her hands the old ball dress (already out of fashion) which
she had worn at her first Petersburg ball.
Natasha was ashamed of doing nothing when everyone else was so busy, and
several times that morning had tried to set to work, but her heart was
not in it, and she could not and did not know how to do anything except
with all her heart and all her might. For a while she had stood beside
Sonya while the china was being packed and tried to help, but soon gave
it up and went to her room to pack her own things. At first she found it
amusing to give away dresses and ribbons to the maids, but when that was
done and what was left had still to be packed, she found it dull.
"Dunyasha, you pack! You will, won’t you, dear?" And when Dunyasha
willingly promised to do it all for her, Natasha sat down on the floor,
took her old ball dress, and fell into a reverie quite unrelated to what
ought to have occupied her thoughts now. She was roused from her reverie
by the talk of the maids in the next room (which was theirs) and by the
sound of their hurried footsteps going to the back porch. Natasha got
up and looked out of the window. An enormously long row of carts full of
wounded men had stopped in the street.
The housekeeper, the old nurse, the cooks, coachmen, maids, footmen,
postilions, and scullions stood at the gate, staring at the wounded.
Natasha, throwing a clean pocket handkerchief over her hair and holding
an end of it in each hand, went out into the street.
The former housekeeper, old Mavra Kuzminichna, had stepped out of the
crowd by the gate, gone up to a cart with a hood constructed of bast
mats, and was speaking to a pale young officer who lay inside.
Natasha moved a few steps forward and stopped shyly, still holding her
handkerchief, and listened to what the housekeeper was saying.
"Then you have nobody in Moscow?" she was saying. "You would be more
comfortable somewhere in a house... in ours, for instance... the family
are leaving."
"I don’t know if it would be allowed," replied the officer in a weak
voice. "Here is our commanding officer... ask him," and he pointed to a
stout major who was walking back along the street past the row of carts.
Natasha glanced with frightened eyes at the face of the wounded officer
and at once went to meet the major.
"May the wounded men stay in our house?" she asked.
The major raised his hand to his cap with a smile.
"Which one do you want, Ma’am’selle?" said he, screwing up his eyes and
smiling.
Natasha quietly repeated her question, and her face and whole
manner were so serious, though she was still holding the ends of her
handkerchief, that the major ceased smiling and after some reflection - as
if considering in how far the thing was possible - replied in the
affirmative.
"Oh yes, why not? They may," he said.
With a slight inclination of her head, Natasha stepped back quickly to
Mavra Kuzminichna, who stood talking compassionately to the officer.
"They may. He says they may!" whispered Natasha.
The cart in which the officer lay was turned into the Rostovs’ yard,
and dozens of carts with wounded men began at the invitation of the
townsfolk to turn into the yards and to draw up at the entrances of the
houses in Povarskaya Street. Natasha was evidently pleased to be dealing
with new people outside the ordinary routine of her life. She and Mavra
Kuzminichna tried to get as many of the wounded as possible into their
yard.
"Your Papa must be told, though," said Mavra Kuzminichna.
"Never mind, never mind, what does it matter? For one day we can move
into the drawing room. They can have all our half of the house."
"There now, young lady, you do take things into your head! Even if we
put them into the wing, the men’s room, or the nurse’s room, we must ask
permission."
"Well, I’ll ask."
Natasha ran into the house and went on tiptoe through the half-open door
into the sitting room, where there was a smell of vinegar and Hoffman’s
drops.
"Are you asleep, Mamma?"
"Oh, what sleep - ?" said the countess, waking up just as she was dropping
into a doze.
"Mamma darling!" said Natasha, kneeling by her mother and bringing her
face close to her mother’s, "I am sorry, forgive me, I’ll never do it
again; I woke you up! Mavra Kuzminichna has sent me: they have brought
some wounded here - officers. Will you let them come? They have nowhere to
go. I knew you’d let them come!" she said quickly all in one breath.
"What officers? Whom have they brought? I don’t understand anything
about it," said the countess.
Natasha laughed, and the countess too smiled slightly.
"I knew you’d give permission... so I’ll tell them," and, having kissed
her mother, Natasha got up and went to the door.
In the hall she met her father, who had returned with bad news.
"We’ve stayed too long!" said the count with involuntary vexation. "The
Club is closed and the police are leaving."
"Papa, is it all right - I’ve invited some of the wounded into the house?"
said Natasha.
"Of course it is," he answered absently. "That’s not the point. I beg
you not to indulge in trifles now, but to help to pack, and tomorrow we
must go, go, go!..."
And the count gave a similar order to the major-domo and the servants.
At dinner Petya having returned home told them the news he had heard.
He said the people had been getting arms in the Kremlin, and that though
Rostopchin’s broadsheet had said that he would sound a call two or three
days in advance, the order had certainly already been given for everyone
to go armed to the Three Hills tomorrow, and that there would be a big
battle there.
The countess looked with timid horror at her son’s eager, excited face
as he said this. She realized that if she said a word about his not
going to the battle (she knew he enjoyed the thought of the impending
engagement) he would say something about men, honor, and the
fatherland - something senseless, masculine, and obstinate which there
would be no contradicting, and her plans would be spoiled; and so,
hoping to arrange to leave before then and take Petya with her as their
protector and defender, she did not answer him, but after dinner called
the count aside and implored him with tears to take her away quickly,
that very night if possible. With a woman’s involuntary loving cunning
she, who till then had not shown any alarm, said that she would die of
fright if they did not leave that very night. Without any pretense she
was now afraid of everything.
CHAPTER XIV
Madame Schoss, who had been out to visit her daughter, increased the
countess’ fears still more by telling what she had seen at a spirit
dealer’s in Myasnitski Street. When returning by that street she had
been unable to pass because of a drunken crowd rioting in front of
the shop. She had taken a cab and driven home by a side street and the
cabman had told her that the people were breaking open the barrels at
the drink store, having received orders to do so.
After dinner the whole Rostov household set to work with enthusiastic
haste packing their belongings and preparing for their departure. The
old count, suddenly setting to work, kept passing from the yard to the
house and back again, shouting confused instructions to the hurrying
people, and flurrying them still more. Petya directed things in the
yard. Sonya, owing to the count’s contradictory orders, lost her head
and did not know what to do. The servants ran noisily about the house
and yard, shouting and disputing. Natasha, with the ardor characteristic
of all she did suddenly set to work too. At first her intervention in
the business of packing was received skeptically. Everybody expected
some prank from her and did not wish to obey her; but she resolutely
and passionately demanded obedience, grew angry and nearly cried because
they did not heed her, and at last succeeded in making them believe her.
Her first exploit, which cost her immense effort and established her
authority, was the packing of the carpets. The count had valuable
Gobelin tapestries and Persian carpets in the house. When Natasha set
to work two cases were standing open in the ballroom, one almost full
up with crockery, the other with carpets. There was also much china
standing on the tables, and still more was being brought in from the
storeroom. A third case was needed and servants had gone to fetch it.
"Sonya, wait a bit - we’ll pack everything into these," said Natasha.
"You can’t, Miss, we have tried to," said the butler’s assistant.
"No, wait a minute, please."
And Natasha began rapidly taking out of the case dishes and plates
wrapped in paper.
"The dishes must go in here among the carpets," said she.
"Why, it’s a mercy if we can get the carpets alone into three cases,"
said the butler’s assistant.
"Oh, wait, please!" And Natasha began rapidly and deftly sorting out the
things. "These aren’t needed," said she, putting aside some plates
of Kiev ware. "These - yes, these must go among the carpets," she said,
referring to the Saxony china dishes.
"Don’t, Natasha! Leave it alone! We’ll get it all packed," urged Sonya
reproachfully.
"What a young lady she is!" remarked the major-domo.
But Natasha would not give in. She turned everything out and began
quickly repacking, deciding that the inferior Russian carpets and
unnecessary crockery should not be taken at all. When everything had
been taken out of the cases, they recommenced packing, and it turned
out that when the cheaper things not worth taking had nearly all been
rejected, the valuable ones really did all go into the two cases. Only
the lid of the case containing the carpets would not shut down. A few
more things might have been taken out, but Natasha insisted on having
her own way. She packed, repacked, pressed, made the butler’s assistant
and Petya - whom she had drawn into the business of packing - press on the
lid, and made desperate efforts herself.
"That’s enough, Natasha," said Sonya. "I see you were right, but just
take out the top one."
"I won’t!" cried Natasha, with one hand holding back the hair that hung
over her perspiring face, while with the other she pressed down the
carpets. "Now press, Petya! Press, Vasilich, press hard!" she cried.
The carpets yielded and the lid closed; Natasha, clapping her hands,
screamed with delight and tears fell from her eyes. But this only
lasted a moment. She at once set to work afresh and they now trusted her
completely. The count was not angry even when they told him that Natasha
had countermanded an order of his, and the servants now came to her
to ask whether a cart was sufficiently loaded, and whether it might
be corded up. Thanks to Natasha’s directions the work now went on
expeditiously, unnecessary things were left, and the most valuable
packed as compactly as possible.
But hard as they all worked till quite late that night, they could not
get everything packed. The countess had fallen asleep and the count,
having put off their departure till next morning, went to bed.
Sonya and Natasha slept in the sitting room without undressing.
That night another wounded man was driven down the Povarskaya, and Mavra
Kuzminichna, who was standing at the gate, had him brought into the
Rostovs’ yard. Mavra Kuzminichna concluded that he was a very important
man. He was being conveyed in a caleche with a raised hood, and was
quite covered by an apron. On the box beside the driver sat a venerable
old attendant. A doctor and two soldiers followed the carriage in a
cart.
"Please come in here. The masters are going away and the whole house
will be empty," said the old woman to the old attendant.
"Well, perhaps," said he with a sigh. "We don’t expect to get him home
alive! We have a house of our own in Moscow, but it’s a long way from
here, and there’s nobody living in it."
"Do us the honor to come in, there’s plenty of everything in the
master’s house. Come in," said Mavra Kuzminichna. "Is he very ill?" she
asked.
The attendant made a hopeless gesture.
"We don’t expect to get him home! We must ask the doctor."
And the old servant got down from the box and went up to the cart.
"All right!" said the doctor.
The old servant returned to the caleche, looked into it, shook his
head disconsolately, told the driver to turn into the yard, and stopped
beside Mavra Kuzminichna.
"O, Lord Jesus Christ!" she murmured.
She invited them to take the wounded man into the house.
"The masters won’t object..." she said.
But they had to avoid carrying the man upstairs, and so they took him
into the wing and put him in the room that had been Madame Schoss’.
This wounded man was Prince Andrew Bolkonski.
CHAPTER XV
Moscow’s last day had come. It was a clear bright autumn day, a Sunday.
The church bells everywhere were ringing for service, just as usual on
Sundays. Nobody seemed yet to realize what awaited the city.
Only two things indicated the social condition of Moscow - the rabble,
that is the poor people, and the price of commodities. An enormous crowd
of factory hands, house serfs, and peasants, with whom some officials,
seminarists, and gentry were mingled, had gone early that morning to
the Three Hills. Having waited there for Rostopchin who did not turn
up, they became convinced that Moscow would be surrendered, and then
dispersed all about the town to the public houses and cookshops. Prices
too that day indicated the state of affairs. The price of weapons, of
gold, of carts and horses, kept rising, but the value of paper money and
city articles kept falling, so that by midday there were instances of
carters removing valuable goods, such as cloth, and receiving in payment
a half of what they carted, while peasant horses were fetching five
hundred rubles each, and furniture, mirrors, and bronzes were being
given away for nothing.
In the Rostovs’ staid old-fashioned house the dissolution of former
conditions of life was but little noticeable. As to the serfs the only
indication was that three out of their huge retinue disappeared
during the night, but nothing was stolen; and as to the value of their
possessions, the thirty peasant carts that had come in from their
estates and which many people envied proved to be extremely valuable and
they were offered enormous sums of money for them. Not only were huge
sums offered for the horses and carts, but on the previous evening and
early in the morning of the first of September, orderlies and servants
sent by wounded officers came to the Rostovs’ and wounded men dragged
themselves there from the Rostovs’ and from neighboring houses where
they were accommodated, entreating the servants to try to get them
a lift out of Moscow. The major-domo to whom these entreaties were
addressed, though he was sorry for the wounded, resolutely refused,
saying that he dare not even mention the matter to the count. Pity these
wounded men as one might, it was evident that if they were given one
cart there would be no reason to refuse another, or all the carts and
one’s own carriages as well. Thirty carts could not save all the wounded
and in the general catastrophe one could not disregard oneself and one’s
own family. So thought the major-domo on his master’s behalf.
On waking up that morning Count Ilya Rostov left his bedroom softly, so
as not to wake the countess who had fallen asleep only toward morning,
and came out to the porch in his lilac silk dressing gown. In the yard
stood the carts ready corded. The carriages were at the front porch.
The major-domo stood at the porch talking to an elderly orderly and to
a pale young officer with a bandaged arm. On seeing the count the
major-domo made a significant and stern gesture to them both to go away.
"Well, Vasilich, is everything ready?" asked the count, and stroking his
bald head he looked good-naturedly at the officer and the orderly and
nodded to them. (He liked to see new faces.)
"We can harness at once, your excellency."
"Well, that’s right. As soon as the countess wakes we’ll be off, God
willing! What is it, gentlemen?" he added, turning to the officer. "Are
you staying in my house?"
The officer came nearer and suddenly his face flushed crimson.
"Count, be so good as to allow me... for God’s sake, to get into some
corner of one of your carts! I have nothing here with me.... I shall be
all right on a loaded cart...."
Before the officer had finished speaking the orderly made the same
request on behalf of his master.
"Oh, yes, yes, yes!" said the count hastily. "I shall be very pleased,
very pleased. Vasilich, you’ll see to it. Just unload one or two carts.
Well, what of it... do what’s necessary..." said the count, muttering
some indefinite order.
But at the same moment an expression of warm gratitude on the officer’s
face had already sealed the order. The count looked around him. In the
yard, at the gates, at the window of the wings, wounded officers and
their orderlies were to be seen. They were all looking at the count and
moving toward the porch.
"Please step into the gallery, your excellency," said the major-domo.
"What are your orders about the pictures?"
The count went into the house with him, repeating his order not to
refuse the wounded who asked for a lift.
"Well, never mind, some of the things can be unloaded," he added in a
soft, confidential voice, as though afraid of being overheard.
At nine o’clock the countess woke up, and Matrena Timofeevna, who had
been her lady’s maid before her marriage and now performed a sort of
chief gendarme’s duty for her, came to say that Madame Schoss was much
offended and the young ladies’ summer dresses could not be left behind.
On inquiry, the countess learned that Madame Schoss was offended because
her trunk had been taken down from its cart, and all the loads were
being uncorded and the luggage taken out of the carts to make room for
wounded men whom the count in the simplicity of his heart had ordered
that they should take with them. The countess sent for her husband.
"What is this, my dear? I hear that the luggage is being unloaded."
"You know, love, I wanted to tell you... Countess dear... an officer
came to me to ask for a few carts for the wounded. After all, ours are
things that can be bought but think what being left behind means to
them!... Really now, in our own yard - we asked them in ourselves and
there are officers among them.... You know, I think, my dear... let them
be taken... where’s the hurry?"
The count spoke timidly, as he always did when talking of money matters.
The countess was accustomed to this tone as a precursor of news of
something detrimental to the children’s interests, such as the building
of a new gallery or conservatory, the inauguration of a private theater
or an orchestra. She was accustomed always to oppose anything announced
in that timid tone and considered it her duty to do so.
She assumed her dolefully submissive manner and said to her husband:
"Listen to me, Count, you have managed matters so that we are getting
nothing for the house, and now you wish to throw away all our - all the
children’s property! You said yourself that we have a hundred thousand
rubles’ worth of things in the house. I don’t consent, my dear, I don’t!
Do as you please! It’s the government’s business to look after the
wounded; they know that. Look at the Lopukhins opposite, they cleared
out everything two days ago. That’s what other people do. It’s only
we who are such fools. If you have no pity on me, have some for the
children."
Flourishing his arms in despair the count left the room without
replying.
"Papa, what are you doing that for?" asked Natasha, who had followed him
into her mother’s room.
"Nothing! What business is it of yours?" muttered the count angrily.
"But I heard," said Natasha. "Why does Mamma object?"
"What business is it of yours?" cried the count.
Natasha stepped up to the window and pondered.
"Papa! Here’s Berg coming to see us," said she, looking out of the
window.
CHAPTER XVI
Berg, the Rostovs’ son-in-law, was already a colonel wearing the orders
of Vladimir and Anna, and he still filled the quiet and agreeable post
of assistant to the head of the staff of the assistant commander of the
first division of the Second Army.
On the first of September he had come to Moscow from the army.
He had nothing to do in Moscow, but he had noticed that everyone in the
army was asking for leave to visit Moscow and had something to do there.
So he considered it necessary to ask for leave of absence for family and
domestic reasons.
Berg drove up to his father-in-law’s house in his spruce little trap
with a pair of sleek roans, exactly like those of a certain prince. He
looked attentively at the carts in the yard and while going up to the
porch took out a clean pocket handkerchief and tied a knot in it.
From the anteroom Berg ran with smooth though impatient steps into the
drawing room, where he embraced the count, kissed the hands of Natasha
and Sonya, and hastened to inquire after "Mamma’s" health.
"Health, at a time like this?" said the count. "Come, tell us the news!
Is the army retreating or will there be another battle?"
"God Almighty alone can decide the fate of our fatherland, Papa," said
Berg. "The army is burning with a spirit of heroism and the leaders, so
to say, have now assembled in council. No one knows what is coming. But
in general I can tell you, Papa, that such a heroic spirit, the truly
antique valor of the Russian army, which they - which it" (he corrected
himself) "has shown or displayed in the battle of the twenty-sixth - there
are no words worthy to do it justice! I tell you, Papa" (he smote
himself on the breast as a general he had heard speaking had done, but
Berg did it a trifle late for he should have struck his breast at the
words "Russian army"), "I tell you frankly that we, the commanders, far
from having to urge the men on or anything of that kind, could hardly
restrain those... those... yes, those exploits of antique valor," he
went on rapidly. "General Barclay de Tolly risked his life everywhere at
the head of the troops, I can assure you. Our corps was stationed on a
hillside. You can imagine!"
And Berg related all that he remembered of the various tales he had
heard those days. Natasha watched him with an intent gaze that confused
him, as if she were trying to find in his face the answer to some
question.
"Altogether such heroism as was displayed by the Russian warriors
cannot be imagined or adequately praised!" said Berg, glancing round
at Natasha, and as if anxious to conciliate her, replying to her intent
look with a smile. "‘Russia is not in Moscow, she lives in the hearts of
her sons!’ Isn’t it so, Papa?" said he.
Just then the countess came in from the sitting room with a weary and
dissatisfied expression. Berg hurriedly jumped up, kissed her hand,
asked about her health, and, swaying his head from side to side to
express sympathy, remained standing beside her.
"Yes, Mamma, I tell you sincerely that these are hard and sad times for
every Russian. But why are you so anxious? You have still time to get
away...."
"I can’t think what the servants are about," said the countess, turning
to her husband. "I have just been told that nothing is ready yet.
Somebody after all must see to things. One misses Mitenka at such times.
There won’t be any end to it."
The count was about to say something, but evidently restrained himself.
He got up from his chair and went to the door.
At that moment Berg drew out his handkerchief as if to blow his nose
and, seeing the knot in it, pondered, shaking his head sadly and
significantly.
"And I have a great favor to ask of you, Papa," said he.
"Hm..." said the count, and stopped.
"I was driving past Yusupov’s house just now," said Berg with a laugh,
"when the steward, a man I know, ran out and asked me whether I wouldn’t
buy something. I went in out of curiosity, you know, and there is a
small chiffonier and a dressing table. You know how dear Vera wanted a
chiffonier like that and how we had a dispute about it." (At the mention
of the chiffonier and dressing table Berg involuntarily changed his tone
to one of pleasure at his admirable domestic arrangements.) "And it’s
such a beauty! It pulls out and has a secret English drawer, you know!
And dear Vera has long wanted one. I wish to give her a surprise, you
see. I saw so many of those peasant carts in your yard. Please let me
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