'I was never very happy,' said the countess, 'when Bolkonsky was engaged to Natasha, but I always longed for Nikolay to marry the princess, and I've a feeling it might just happen. Oh, how wonderful that would be!'
Sonya could see the justice of this. The only possibility of easing the Rostovs' plight was by marrying Nikolay to an heiress, and the princess would be an excellent match. But this was a bitter pill to swallow. In spite of her grief, or perhaps because of it, she took on all the hardest jobs in sorting things out and stowing them away, and kept herself busy for days on end. The count and countess consulted her when there were instructions to be given. Petya and Natasha, by contrast, never lifted a finger to help; they just got in the way and irritated everybody. All day long the house rang with their flying footsteps, yells and shrieks of laughter about nothing at all. They were happy and laughing not because there was any reason for laughter. It was the other way round: they were so full of high spirits and great glee that everything seemed reason enough for joy and laughter. Petya was flying high because he had left home a boy, and come back (so everyone told him) a splendid young man, because he was back home again, because he had left Belaya Tserkov, where active service had seemed such a remote prospect, and come back to Moscow, where the fighting would start any day now, but most of all because Natasha, who always set the pace for him, was flying high herself. And she was like that because she had spent too much time being sad, and now, with no more reminders of why she had been so sad, she was well again. And also because there was someone to adore her; being adored was like greasing the wheels that turned her into a smooth-running machine, and Petya certainly adored her. But most of all they were flying high because war was at the walls of Moscow, there would be fighting at the gates, arms were being given out, everybody was rushing about and running away, and something quite sensational was happening, which is always a source of delight, especially for young people.
CHAPTER 13
On Saturday, the 31st of August, the Rostov household looked as if it had been turned upside down. Every door was wide open, every stick of furniture had been carried outside or shifted around, and all the mirrors and pictures had been taken down. The rooms were littered with trunks, straw, wrapping-paper and string. Peasants and house serfs clomped across the parquet floors as they took things outside. The courtyard was crowded with carts, some of them stacked with goods and roped up, others yet to be filled.
Courtyard and house were alive with voices and footsteps, and swarming with house servants and peasants who had come in with the carts. The count had gone off somewhere first thing. The countess had gone down with a headache from all the racket and the hurly-burly, and she was lying flat out in the new sitting-room with a vinegar poultice across her forehead. Petya was out. (He had slipped away to see a young friend; the pair of them were planning to get themselves transferred from the militia into a front-line regiment.) Sonya was out in the big hall, supervising the stowage of glass and china. Natasha was sitting in the middle of the floor amidst the wreckage of her room, in a sea of scattered dresses, ribbons and scarves. She was staring down at the floor as she clutched an old ballgown, the one she had worn at her first Petersburg ball - and how unfashionable it looked now.
Natasha felt embarrassed that she was doing nothing when everyone else was so busy, and several times that morning she had tried to get involved, but her heart wasn't in it. Mentally and physically she was incapable of undertaking anything unless her heart and soul were in it. She had stood over Sonya for a few minutes while she packed the china, and she had tried to help, but not for long; soon she was off to her room to see to her own packing. At first it was fun to be giving away some of her dresses and ribbons to the maids, but when it came to packing what was left, it was too much trouble.
'Dunyasha, would you pack my things, darling? Please. Would you?'
Only too readily Dunyasha promised to do everything, whereupon Natasha sat herself down on the floor with the old ballgown in her hands, and let her thoughts wander - anything to avoid what should have been on her mind there and then. Natasha was jolted out of her reverie by the sound of the maids chattering in the next room and then clattering out of their room and down the back stairs. Natasha got to her feet and looked out of the window. There on the street was a huge train of wagons that had come to a halt, full of wounded men.
Maids, footmen, housekeeper, the old nurse, cooks, coachmen, grooms, and kitchen-boys - they were all out there at the gates, staring at the wounded men.
Natasha flung a white pocket-handkerchief over her hair, and held the corners with both hands as she went down to the street.
Mavra, the old housekeeper, had walked out from the crowd by the gate and gone over to one wagon that had a covering of fibre matting. She was now talking to a pallid young officer who was lying in it. Natasha tiptoed forward one or two steps, and stood there shyly, holding on to her handkerchief and listening to what the housekeeper was saying.
'So. None of your people left in Moscow?' Mavra was saying. 'You'd be better off in somebody's house . . . This one, for instance. The masters are all moving out.'
'Don't suppose they'd allow that,' said the officer in a feeble voice. 'There's our senior officer . . . Ask him,' and he pointed to a corpulent major who was walking back past the carts lined up along the street.
Natasha glanced fearfully at the wounded officer's face, and went straight up to the major.
'Would you please allow the wounded men to stay in our house?' she asked.
The major smiled and raised one hand to his cap.
'Which one do you want, mam'selle?' he said, screwing his eyes into a smile.
Natasha calmly repeated her request, and her face and her whole manner, even though she was still hanging on to the corners of the handkerchief, seemed so serious that the major wiped the smile off his face and gave some thought to this new possibility before saying yes to it.
'I don't see why not,' he said.
Natasha gave him a tiny nod, and skipped back to Mavra, who was standing over the young officer and talking to him with a great show of sympathy.
'He said yes. He said they can!' whispered Natasha.
The officer in the covered cart turned into the Rostovs' courtyard, and dozens of carts carrying wounded men were soon accepting invitations from good citizens to drive up to the entries of other houses in Povarsky Street. Natasha was obviously delighted to be dealing with different people under totally new circumstances. She worked alongside Mavra, getting as many people as possible to drive into their yard.
'We must ask your papa, though,' said Mavra.
'Don't be silly. It makes no difference now! We can move into the drawing-room just for one day. They can have our part of the house, all of it.'
'Oh, miss, what are you talking about? They can go into the out-buildings, the men's room and old nurse's room, but even then you'll have to ask.'
'All right, I will.'
She ran indoors. The sitting-room door was ajar; there was a strong smell of vinegar and Hoffmann's drops. Natasha tiptoed in.
'Are you asleep, Mamma?'
'How can anybody sleep?' said the countess, who had just been nodding off.
'Mamma, darling!' said Natasha, kneeling down and bringing her face close up to her mother's. 'I'm so sorry, please forgive me. I'll never do it again. I've woken you up. Mavra sent me. They've brought some wounded soldiers, officers. You will let them in, won't you? They've got nowhere to go. I know you will,' she gabbled without pausing for breath.
'Officers? Who's been brought in? I don't understand what you're saying,' said the countess.
Natasha laughed, and even the countess managed a thin smile.
'I knew you would . . . Right, I'll go and tell them.' And Natasha gave her mother a kiss, got to her feet and went to the door.
Out in the hall she ran into her father, who had just got back, the bearer of bad news.
'We've stayed on too long!' said the count, unable to hid
e his resentment. 'The club's closed, and the police are leaving.'
'Papa, I've invited some wounded soldiers into the house. You don't mind, do you?' said Natasha.
'Of course not,' said the count, his mind on other matters. 'But that's by the way. I'm asking you now to stop messing about. Please help with the packing. We ought to be on the road. We must be off tomorrow . . .'
And the count issued the same instructions to his butler and the servants.
Petya was back by dinnertime, and he also brought news. He said the people had been out today collecting weapons in the Kremlin, and although Rostopchin's poster said he would give the call a day or two beforehand, there was a clear understanding that tomorrow everybody had to go with their weapons to the Three Hills, because a great battle was going to be fought there.
The countess was horrified. As he was saying all this she kept a nervous watch on her son's eager, excited face. She knew it: one word from her about Petya staying away from this battle (she could see he was relishing the prospect of it), and he would go on at her about being a man, honour, the fatherland - the bone-headed obstinacy of men that brooked no opposition - and all would be lost. So, in the hope of getting away beforehand and taking Petya along as their guard and protector, she said nothing to her son, but as soon as dinner was over she took her husband to one side, burst into tears and begged him to take her away as soon as possible, that night if it could be done. Until this moment she had been a model of self-control, but now with all the guile and affection that come naturally to a woman, she said she would die of fright if they didn't get away that very night. For once she was not pretending; everything scared her now.
CHAPTER 14
Madame Schoss, who had been out walking on a visit to her daughter, added to the countess's fears by describing what she had seen outside a public house in Myasnitsky Street. That thoroughfare was on her way home, but she hadn't been able to walk down it because there was a drunken mob rampaging round the public house. She had taken a cab and driven home by a roundabout route; the driver had told her that the mob had been breaking barrels open, and they had been told to do so.
After lunch all the Rostov household were only too eager to resume the business of packing and preparing for their departure at top speed. The old count jumped to it, and spent the whole day trotting in and out of the courtyard, shouting meaningless instructions to the hurrying servants, and trying to get them to go even faster. Petya directed operations outside. Sonya couldn't make head or tail of the count's contradictory orders, and she didn't know which way to turn. The servants were running about all over the place, inside and out, shouting, arguing and making a terrible racket. Natasha now joined the fray, with her usual enthusiasm. At first her sudden involvement was viewed with some suspicion. Everybody expected nothing but silliness from her and they wouldn't do what she said, but she stuck to her guns and urgently insisted on being obeyed, losing her temper and almost weeping from frustration because they wouldn't listen, and at last she won them round. Her first solid achievement, which cost her much effort but finally established her authority, had to do with packing the rugs. The house contained a number of expensive Gobelin tapestries and Persian carpets. When Natasha got to work she found two boxes standing open in the ballroom, one almost full of china, the other full of rugs. There was a lot more china stacked on the tables and more still coming in from the pantry. What they needed was a third box, and the servants had gone to get one.
'Sonya, don't do that. We'll get it all in,' said Natasha.
'We won't, miss. We've already tried,' said the under-butler.
'No, wait a minute, please.' And Natasha started taking the paper-wrapped plates and dishes out of the box.
'It would be better to wrap the dishes in with the rugs,' she said.
'But, for goodness' sake, we've still got enough rugs left to fill three boxes,' said the footman.
'Just wait. Please.' And Natasha began sorting things out. She moved swiftly and with an expert hand. 'We don't need these,' she said, handling some Kiev plates. 'We do need this lot. They can go in the rugs,' she decided, fishing out the Saxony dishes.
'Oh, Natasha, please don't. Leave us alone. We'll get it all packed,' Sonya chided.
'What a young lady!' exclaimed the butler.
But Natasha was determined. She pulled everything out and quickly started repacking, deciding that the poor-quality rugs and spare crockery needn't be taken at all. When everything had been emptied out she began the repacking, and lo and behold, by throwing out all the cheaper stuff that wasn't worth taking the valuable items were easily squeezed into two boxes. There was only one problem: the lid of the rug box wouldn't shut. A few things could have been taken out, but Natasha wanted to do it her way. She unpacked, repacked, squashed it down, got one of the servants to help Petya, now pressed into service, force the lid down, and added her own desperate efforts.
'It's no good, Natasha,' Sonya said. 'I can see you're right, but you'll have to take the top one out.'
'I will not,' yelled Natasha, using one hand to flick her tousled hair away from her sweating face and the other to press down on the rugs. 'Come on, Petya, squash it down! Press hard!' she cried. The rugs sank down and the lid snapped to. Natasha clapped her hands and shrieked with delight while the tears came to her eyes. But that lasted no longer than a second. She was off on another job, and now the servants trusted her completely, the count didn't object when he heard that his daughter had told them to ignore his instructions, and the servants started coming to Natasha to ask whether a cart was properly loaded and could they rope it down. It was all going swimmingly now, with Natasha in charge. Anything useless was left behind and the things that mattered were stowed with maximum efficiency.
But despite their best efforts night came and they were still not quite packed and ready. The countess had fallen asleep, and the count put off the departure till morning and went off to bed.
Sonya and Natasha slept in the sitting-room, without taking their clothes off.
That night another wounded officer was driven along Povarsky Street, and Mavra, who was standing at the gate, had him brought into the Rostovs' yard. She could only surmise that he must be a man of some importance. He was being transported in a four-wheeled carriage with the hood down and the apron all across the front. Up on the box sitting alongside the driver was a venerable-looking old valet. A doctor and two soldiers were following this carriage in a smaller one.
'Please come in here, come on in. The masters are on their way out. The whole place is empty,' said the old woman to the old servant.
'Well,' answered the valet with a sigh, 'we're not going to make it. We have our own house in Moscow, but it's a long way out, and there's no one there.'
'Well, do come in here, our masters have got plenty of everything, and you're very welcome,' said Mavra. 'Is the gentleman very bad, then?' she asked.
The valet's gesture spoke volumes.
'He won't make it. Better ask the doctor.' And the valet got down and went to the vehicle behind.
'Very good,' said the doctor.
The valet came back to the front carriage, took a look inside, shook his head, told the coachman to turn into the yard, and stood there at Mavra's side.
'Oh, Lord Jesus Christ!' she murmured.
Mavra told them to bring the wounded man indoors.
'The masters won't mind . . .' she said.
But they had to avoid carrying him up any steps, so they took the wounded man to the lodge, and put him in the room that had been Madame Schoss's.
The wounded man was Prince Andrey Bolkonsky.
CHAPTER 15
Moscow's last day had dawned. The autumn weather was bright and clear. It was Sunday. As on any other Sunday church bells were summoning the faithful. By all appearances no one could have been anticipating what was in store for the city.
There were only two social indicators that reflected the position Moscow was in: the activity of the poor people or hoi
polloi, and prices. Early that morning factory workers, house serfs and peasants came flocking out on to the Three Hills, mingling with clerks, divinity students and members of the gentry. They lingered there for a while waiting for Rostopchin, but his non-appearance told them for certain that Moscow was going to be surrendered, so they swarmed back into the city and dispersed among all the taverns and public houses of Moscow. Prices, too, were a good indicator of how things stood that day. The prices of weapons, horses and carts and the value of gold rose steadily, while the value of paper money and household goods was in steep decline, so that by early afternoon there were instances of drivers going halves over any luxury goods like cloth that they were delivering, and whereas a peasant's horse would fetch five hundred roubles, furniture, mirrors and bronzes could be had for nothing.
The sudden collapse of normal life made little impact on the staid, old-fashioned house of the Rostovs. In relation to people, it is true that three servants from their immense retinue had disappeared overnight, but nothing had been stolen; in relation to prices, it transpired that the Rostovs with their thirty carts brought in from the country now owned something of enormous value that many people envied and some were offering to purchase for enormous sums of money. And it was not only a question of being offered enormous sums of money; all the previous evening and now early in the morning of the 1st of September orderlies and servants started turning up in the Rostovs' courtyard, sent there by wounded officers, and wounded men themselves would come limping in from the Rostovs' own house and other houses nearby to implore the servants to try and get them a lift out of Moscow. The butler who received these requests, although sympathetic, turned them all down point-blank, saying that he would never even dare pass this on to the count. However grievous the situation of these abandoned casualties, it was obvious that if you gave them one cart there would be nothing to stop you giving them another, and another, until they were all gone - and the carriages too. Thirty wagons weren't enough to save all the wounded, and in a general catastrophe you had to put you and yours first. This was how the butler reasoned on his master's behalf.