War and Peace
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.
Natásha 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, Natásha stepped back quickly to
Mávra Kuzmínichna, who stood talking compassionately to the officer.
“They may. He says they may!” whispered Natásha.
The cart in which the officer lay was turned into the Rostóvs’ 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 Povarskáya Street. Natásha was evidently pleased to be dealing
with new people outside the ordinary routine of her life. She and Mávra
Kuzmínichna tried to get as many of the wounded as possible into their
yard.
“Your Papa must be told, though,” said Mávra Kuzmínichna.
“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.”
Natásha 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 Natásha, 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! Mávra Kuzmínichna 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.
Natásha laughed, and the countess too smiled slightly.
“I knew you’d give permission... so I’ll tell them,” and, having kissed
her mother, Natásha 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 Natásha.
“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 Pétya having returned home told them the news he had heard.
He said the people had been getting arms in the Krémlin, and that though
Rostopchín’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 Pétya 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 Myasnítski 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 Rostóv 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. Pétya directed things in the
yard. Sónya, 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. Natásha, 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 Natásha 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.
“Sónya, wait a bit—we’ll pack everything into these,” said Natásha.
“You can’t, Miss, we have tried to,” said the butler’s assistant.
“No, wait a minute, please.”
And Natásha 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 Natásha 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, Natásha! Leave it alone! We’ll get it all packed,” urged Sónya
reproachfully.
“What a young lady she is!” remarked the major-domo.
But Natásha 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 Natásha insisted on having
her own way. She packed, repacked, pressed, made the butler’s assistant
and Pétya—whom she had drawn into the business of packing—press on the
lid, and made desperate efforts herself.
“That’s enough, Natásha,” said Sónya. “I see you were right, but just
take out the top one.”
“I won’t!” cried Natásha, with one hand holding back the hair that hung
over her perspiring face, while with the other she pressed down the
carpets. “Now press, Pétya! Press, Vasílich, press hard!” she cried.
The carpets yielded and the lid closed; Natásha, 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 Natásha
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 Natásha’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.
Sónya and Natásha slept in the sitting room without undressing.
That night another wounded man was driven down the Povarskáya, and Mávra
Kuzmínichna, who was standing at the gate, had him brought into the
Rostóvs’ yard. Mávra Kuzmínichna concluded that he was a very important
man. He was being conveyed in a calèche 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 Mávra Kuzmínichna. “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 calèche, looked into it, shook his
head disconsolately, told the driver to turn into the yard, and stopped
beside Mávra Kuzmínichna.
“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 Bolkónski.
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 Rostopchín 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 Rostóvs’ 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