Count Rostov woke up that morning and slipped quietly out of his bedroom so as not to disturb the countess, who had been awake most of the night, and walked out on to the front steps in his lilac silk dressing-gown. The wagons were standing there in the courtyard loaded and roped. The carriages waited at the bottom of the steps. The butler was out at the entrance talking to an old orderly and a pale-faced young officer with his arm in a sling. The moment the butler caught sight of his master he made it clear in no uncertain terms that they had better be on their way.
'Ah, Vasilich, is everything ready, then?' asked the count, rubbing his bald head as he gave the officer and the orderly a friendly glance and a quick nod. (The count liked seeing new faces.)
'We can harness immediately, your Excellency.'
'Splendid. Once the countess is up and about we'll be on our way, God willing! What can I do for you two gentlemen?' he said, addressing the officer. 'Are you staying in the house?'
The officer came nearer. His pallid face had suddenly flushed crimson.
'Count, would you do me a great favour? Please . . . for God's sake . . . could you squeeze me into one of your wagons? I've nothing with me . . . I could get in with the luggage . . .'
Before the officer had finished speaking the orderly was there with a similar request for his master.
'Oh, yes, yes, yes,' gabbled the count. 'Only too glad to help. Vasilich, see to this, will you? Have one or two wagons cleared. Er, that one maybe? What's, er . . . Oh . . . just do what's necessary . . .' The count's instructions consisted of vague ramblings. But the warm glow of gratitude on the officer's face instantly set the seal on his order. The count took a look round. On all sides - in the courtyard, at the gates, at the lodge windows - he could see wounded men and orderlies. They were all looking his way and beginning to head for the steps.
'Sir, I wonder if you would mind coming with me to the gallery. We need you to decide about the pictures,' said the butler. And the count went indoors with him, repeating his instructions that any wounded men who wanted a lift were not to be refused.
'Well, we can take a few things out, can't we?' he added in a low, conspiratorial voice, as if he didn't want to be overheard.
The countess woke at nine, and Matryona, who had been her maid before her marriage and now guarded her like a police-chief, came in to report that Madame Schoss was most annoyed, and the young ladies' summer dresses couldn't possibly be left behind. When the countess wanted to know what had upset Madame Schoss it emerged that this lady's trunk had been taken down from its cart, and all the carts were being unroped and the luggage was being taken out to make room for wounded men who had been invited along by the count, in all his innocence. The countess sent for her husband.
'What's this I hear, my dear? They're unloading the luggage?'
'Oh yes, my love. I've . . . I've been meaning to tell you . . . Dear little countess . . . This officer came up to me asking for a couple of carts for the wounded. I know it's our property, but think about them being left behind! . . . They're out there in the yard. We invited them in. Some of them are officers . . . You see, my love . . . The way I see it . . . I mean . . . I think we should take them. We're not in too much of a hurry.'
The count's tone was diffident, as always when it came to money. The countess knew the tone well, the inevitable harbinger of some new piece of business likely to be ruinous for the children, like the building of a new gallery, or a conservatory, getting up a new theatre in the house, or forming an orchestra, and it was now a matter of habit and duty for her to resist anything that came to her in that diffident tone.
Assuming her attitude of tearful resignation, she spoke to her husband.
'Listen, Count, you've brought us so low we're getting nothing for the house, and now you want to get rid of all our things - the children's property. It was you who told me we have a hundred thousand roubles' worth of valuables in this house. I won't have it, my dear, I won't have it. What do you think you're doing? It's the government's job to look after the wounded, and they know full well. Look at the Lopukhins across the street - they cleared out every stick only the other day. That's how other people do things. We're the only fools. You may have no consideration for me, but at least think about the children.'
The count threw up his hands, and went out of the room without saying a word.
'Papa! What's all this about?' asked Natasha, who had followed him to her mother's room.
'Nothing! You keep out of this!' the count said angrily.
'But I heard,' said Natasha. 'Why is Mamma objecting?'
'Keep out of it!' cried the count.
Natasha walked over to the window, looking thoughtful.
'Oh, Papa, look. Berg's come to see us,' she said, looking out of the window.
CHAPTER 16
By this time Berg, the Rostovs' son-in-law, was a colonel, with the orders of Vladimir and Anne round his neck, and he was still enjoying his nice little sinecure as assistant head of staff to the assistant chief officer commanding the Second Corps first division.
On the 1st of September he had come back to Moscow from the army. He had nothing to do in the city, but he had noticed that everyone else in the army was going to Moscow on leave, and they were finding things to do there. So he decided that he too ought to apply for some leave on domestic and family grounds.
Berg drove up to his father-in-law's house in his neat little trap drawn by a pair of sleek roans, an exact copy of those belonging to a certain prince. He took a long look at the carts in the yard, and as he ran up the steps he took out a clean pocket-handkerchief and tied a knot in it.
Berg glided speedily from the ante-room to the drawing-room, where he embraced the count, kissed Natasha's hand and Sonya's, and lost no time inquiring after Mamma's health.
'Never mind people's health at a time like this! Come on, tell us what's going on in the army!' said the count. 'Are they retreating, or will they stand and fight?'
'Our Eternal Father is the only power that can decide the fate of our country, Papa,' said Berg. 'The army burns with the spirit of heroism, and at this very moment our leaders have, so to speak, foregathered in council. No one knows the outcome. But in general I can say this, Papa - that heroic spirit, the authentic and time-honoured valour of our Russian army that they - I mean it,' he said, correcting himself, ' - showed in the battle of the 26th . . . well, no words can do justice to it.' (He smote himself on the breast in the manner of a general he had heard holding forth, but his timing was out - the blow on the chest should have been delivered along with the phrase 'our Russian army'.) 'I can say quite openly that we officers, far from having to urge the soldiers on, or anything like that, were hard put to hold back this . . . those brave deeds of ancient valour,' he gabbled. 'General Barclay de Tolly risked his life all over the place at the head of his troops, I can assure you. Our particular corps was stationed on a hillside . . . Imagine the scene . . .' And off he went into all the stories he had committed to memory from the many circulating at a time of good stories. Natasha embarrassed Berg by watching him closely as if the solution to some problem was hidden in his face.
'Such widespread heroism as was demonstrated by the Russian soldiers is beyond description and worthy of the highest praise!' said Berg, looking at Natasha, and in an attempt to mollify her he answered her sharp stare with a smile . . . 'Russia is not to be found in Moscow, she dwells in the hearts of her sons! Isn't that right, Papa?'
At this moment the countess came in from the sitting-room looking weary and thoroughly annoyed. Berg leapt to his feet, kissed the countess's hand, asked after her health, and stood at her side, exuding sympathy with much shaking of his head.
'Yes, Mamma, the truth is, these are hard and anxious times for every Russian. But why are you looking so worried? There's still time to get away . . .'
'I can't work out what the servants are up to,' said the countess to her husband. 'They've just told me we're nowhere near ready. Someone will have to go and t
ake charge. It's at times like this that one misses Mitenka. I can't see an end to it.'
The count was on the verge of a reply, but he bit it back with a visible effort, got to his feet and walked over to the door.
Berg, meanwhile, had taken out his handkerchief as if he was going to blow his nose, and when he saw the knot in it, he paused for a moment's thought, shaking his head in a lugubrious, meaningful way.
'By the way, Papa, I have a great favour to ask you . . .' he began.
'Hm?' said the count, pausing.
'I was going past Yusupov's place just now,' said Berg with a laugh, 'when their steward, a man I know, came running out and asked whether I might like to buy any of their things. I popped in, you know, just out of curiosity, and there was this sweet little chiffonier and a dressing-table. You remember, the very thing my dear Vera wanted, and we quarrelled about.' (At the mention of the chiffonier and dressing-table Berg had slipped unconsciously into a tone that showed how delighted he was with his lovely domestic set-up.) 'And such a delightful piece! It's got a secret English drawer - you know the sort. Just what my little Vera has been wanting. I'd love to give it to her as a nice little surprise. I noticed you have lots of peasants down in the yard. Please could I borrow one of them? I'll pay him well, and . . .'
The count scowled and cleared his throat.
'Ask the countess. I don't give the orders.'
'If it's any trouble please don't bother,' said Berg. 'Only, I'd love to get it for Vera.'
'Oh, to hell with the lot of you! Hell and damnation! Hell and damnation!' roared the old count. 'My head's spinning.' And he walked out of the room.
The countess burst into tears.
'Yes, indeed, these are terrible times, Mamma!' said Berg.
Natasha had left the room with her father, and she seemed to be in two minds. First she followed him, then she turned back and ran downstairs.
Petya was standing on the steps busily issuing weapons to the servants who were leaving Moscow. The loaded carts were still there in the courtyard. Two had been unroped, and the wounded officer was clambering aboard one of them with some assistance from his orderly.
'What's it all about?' Petya asked Natasha. (Natasha knew what he meant: why were their father and mother at loggerheads?) She didn't answer.
'I know. Because Papa wanted to give all the carts to the wounded men,' said Petya. 'Vasilich told me. If you want my opinion . . .'
'My opinion!' Natasha turned a furious face on Petya, virtually yelling at him. 'In my opinion, it's all so horrible! It's vile! . . . Oh, I don't know. We're like a load of Germans! . . .' Her throat was racked with sobs, but she didn't want to break down or waste the full effect of her fury, so she turned and flew back up the steps.
Berg was sitting beside the countess, summoning up all his powers of filial consideration in an effort to soothe her. The count was pacing up and down the room, pipe in hand, when Natasha stormed into the room, her features contorted with fury, and raced across to her mother.
'It's horrible! It's just vile!' she screamed. 'You can't possibly have given orders like that!'
Berg and the countess stared at her in alarm and bewilderment. The count had come to a halt by the window, and he was listening.
'Mamma, it's impossible. Look what's happening down in the yard!' she cried. 'They're being left behind!'
'What's wrong with you? Who are? What do you want?'
'The wounded men! It's impossible, Mamma. It's outrageous . . . No listen, Mamma, darling, it's all wrong. I'm sorry, but please, darling . . . Mamma, it doesn't matter what we take with us. Just look down there in the yard . . . Mamma! . . . You can't do it!'
The count stood by the window, listening to Natasha without looking round. All at once he choked, and pressed his face against the window.
The countess glanced at her daughter, saw she was ashamed of her own mother, saw her agitation, suddenly realized why her husband wouldn't look round at her, and stared about with a distracted air.
'Oh, do what you want! I'm not stopping anybody doing anything,' she said, giving in gradually.
'Mamma, darling, I am sorry.'
But the countess pushed her daughter away, and went over to the count.
'You give the orders, dear. You tell them . . . I don't know what I'm doing,' she said, looking down shamefacedly.
'Out of the mouths of babes . . .' murmured the count through tears of joy, and he hugged his wife, who was only too pleased to bury her face of shame on his breast.
'Papa, Mamma! Let me give the orders. May I?' asked Natasha. 'We'll still take all the really important things,' she added.
The count nodded, and Natasha was off, racing away like a chasing child across the big hall, through the ante-room and down the front steps to the courtyard.
The servants gathered round Natasha, reluctant to believe the curious instructions she was giving out, until the count himself appeared and on behalf of his wife confirmed that all the carts were to be made available for the wounded and the boxes put into storage. Once they understood this, the servants set to with a new will and much enthusiasm. The new development no longer seemed strange; it seemed the most natural thing in the world, just as a quarter of an hour earlier they hadn't thought it the least bit strange to be leaving wounded men behind and taking the furniture - that too had seemed the most natural thing in the world.
The entire household rallied round and tackled the business of getting the wounded into the wagons, as if they wanted to make up for having neglected it earlier. The wounded soldiers came crawling out of their rooms and crowded round the wagons, pale-faced but happy. The news that there was transport available soon got round the neighbouring houses, and wounded men started trickling into the yard from other places. Many of the wounded soldiers asked them not to take out the boxes - just let them sit on top. But once the unloading process was under way there was no stopping it. It made no difference whether they left everything or only half the stuff behind. Cases full of china, bronzes, pictures and mirrors, so carefully stowed the night before, now lay neglected in the yard, and still they continued to find new ways of taking more and more things out and leaving more and more wagons for the wounded.
'We can take four more,' said the steward. 'They can have my trap too, or anything might happen to them.'
'Oh, do let them have our wardrobe cart,' said the countess. 'Dunyasha can come with me in the carriage.'
The wardrobe wagon was unloaded and dispatched to pick up wounded men two houses away. Family and servants were bubbling with excitement. Natasha was ecstatic, much happier than she had been for a very long time.
'What can we fasten this to?' said a servant, struggling with a trunk wedged on the narrow footboard at the back of the carriage. 'It's got to go on a cart.'
'What is it?' asked Natasha.
'The count's books.'
'Oh, leave it. Vasilich will take care of that. We don't need it.'
With the big carriage full of people the question was: where was Petya going to sit?
'He'll go up on the box. You'll go up on the box, won't you, Petya?' Natasha called out.
Sonya was working flat out too, but her aim was the opposite of Natasha's. She was seeing to the stowage of everything left behind, drawing up an inventory at the countess's request, and trying to get them to take as much as possible with them.
CHAPTER 17
Just before two o'clock the Rostovs' four carriages, packed and ready for the road, stood waiting by the front door. One by one wagon-loads of wounded men were trundling out of the courtyard.
A vehicle carrying Prince Andrey was on its way past the front steps when it was noticed by Sonya, who was helping one of the maids to arrange comfortable seating for the countess in her huge, high carriage.
'Whose carriage is that?' asked Sonya, popping her head out of the carriage window.
'Oh, haven't you heard, miss?' answered the maid. 'It's the wounded prince. He stayed here last night, and he's com
ing on with us.'
'Oh, who is he? What's his name?'
'It's our intended that was . . . Prince Bolkonsky!' answered the maid with a sigh. 'They say he's dying.'
Sonya jumped out of the carriage and ran in to see the countess. The countess, dressed for the road in hat and shawl, was pacing wearily up and down the drawing-room, waiting for the rest of the household to come in and sit down behind closed doors for the usual silent prayer before starting out. Natasha wasn't there.
'Mamma,' said Sonya, 'Prince Andrey's here. He's wounded and dying. He's coming on with us.'
The countess's eyes widened in alarm; she snatched at Sonya's arm, and took a look round.
'What about Natasha?' she said.
For both of them this news could have only one meaning. They knew their Natasha, and worrying about how this news might affect her overrode any sympathy for the man himself, however much affection they might have for him.
'Natasha doesn't know yet, but he is coming with us,' said Sonya.
'You say he is dying?'
Sonya nodded.
The countess hugged Sonya and burst into tears. 'God moves in a mysterious way!' she thought, sensing in this turn of events the hand of the Almighty, hitherto hidden from the eyes of man.
'All right, Mamma, we're completely ready! What's wrong? . . .' asked Natasha, rushing in all excited.
'Oh, nothing,' said the countess. 'If we're ready, let's be on our way.' And the countess bent over her reticule to conceal her worried face. Sonya gave Natasha a hug and a kiss.
Natasha looked puzzled.
'What's all this? What's happened?'
'Nothing's happened . . . Nothing . . .'
Natasha was not to be fooled.
'It's something awful, and it affects me . . . What is it?' she asked.
Sonya gave a sigh, but said nothing. The count, Petya, Madame Schoss, Mavra and Vasilich trooped in, the doors were closed and they all sat down to spend a few moments in silence avoiding each other's eyes.