War and Peace
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 Rostóvs’ and wounded men dragged
themselves there from the Rostóvs’ 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 Ilyá Rostóv 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, Vasílich, 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. Vasílich, 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 Matrëna Timoféevna, 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 Lopukhíns 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 Natásha, who had followed him
into her mother’s room.
“Nothing! What business is it of yours?” muttered the count angrily.
“But I heard,” said Natásha. “Why does Mamma object?”
“What business is it of yours?” cried the count.
Natásha 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 Rostóvs’ son-in-law, was already a colonel wearing the orders
of Vladímir 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 Natásha
and Sónya, 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. Natásha 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 Natásha, 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 Mítenka 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 Yusúpov’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 Véra 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 Véra 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
have one, I will pay the man well, and...”
The count frowned and coughed.
“Ask the countess, I don’t give orders.”
“If it’s inconvenient, please don’t,” said Berg. “Only I so wanted it,
for dear Véra’s sake.”
“Oh, go to the devil, all of you! To the devil, the devil, the devil...”
cried the old count. “My head’s in a whirl!”
And he left the room. The countess began to cry.
“Yes, Mamma! Yes, these are very hard times!” said Berg.
Natásha left the room with her father and, as if finding it difficult to
reach some decision, first followed him and then ran downstairs.
Pétya was in the porch, engaged in giving out weapons to the servants
who were to leave Moscow. The loaded carts were still standing in the
yard. Two of them had been uncorded and a wounded officer was climbing
into one of them helped by an orderly.
“Do you know what it’s about?” Pétya asked Natásha.
She understood that he meant what were their parents quarreling about.
She did not answer.
“It’s because Papa wanted to give up all the carts to the wounded,” said
Pétya. “Vasílich told me. I consider...”
“I consider,” Natásha suddenly almost shouted, turning her angry face to
Pétya, “I consider it so horrid, so abominable, so... I don’t know what.
Are we despicable Germans?”
Her throat quivered with convulsive sobs and, afraid of weakening and