________________________________________________
_ 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 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 Vera'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.
Natasha left the room with her father and, as if finding it
difficult to reach some decision, first followed him and then ran
downstairs.
Petya 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?" Petya asked Natasha.
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 Petya. "Vasilich told me. I consider..."
"I consider," Natasha suddenly almost shouted, turning her angry
face to Petya, "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 letting the force of her anger run to waste, she turned and rushed
headlong up the stairs.
Berg was sitting beside the countess consoling her with the
respectful attention of a relative. The count, pipe in hand, was
pacing up and down the room, when Natasha, her face distorted by
anger, burst in like a tempest and approached her mother with rapid
steps.
"It's horrid! It's abominable! she screamed. "You can't possibly
have ordered it!"
Berg and the countess looked at her, perplexed and frightened. The
count stood still at the window and listened.
"Mamma, it's impossible: see what is going on in the yard!" she
cried. "They will be left!..."
"What's the matter with you? Who are 'they'? What do you want?"
"Why, the wounded! It's impossible, Mamma. It's monstrous!... No,
Mamma darling, it's not the thing. Please forgive me, darling....
Mamma, what does it matter what we take away? Only look what is
going on in the yard... Mamma!... It's impossible!"
The count stood by the window and listened without turning round.
Suddenly he sniffed and put his face closer to the window.
The countess glanced at her daughter, saw her face full of shame for
her mother, saw her agitation, and understood why her husband did
not turn to look at her now, and she glanced round quite disconcerted.
"Oh, do as you like! Am I hindering anyone?" she said, not
surrendering at once.
"Mamma, darling, forgive me!"
But the countess pushed her daughter away and went up to her
husband.
"My dear, you order what is right.... You know I don't understand
about it," said she, dropping her eyes shamefacedly.
"The eggs... the eggs are teaching the hen," muttered the count
through tears of joy, and he embraced his wife who was glad to hide
her look of shame on his breast.
"Papa! Mamma! May I see to it? May I?..." asked Natasha. "We will
still take all the most necessary things."
The count nodded affirmatively, and Natasha, at the rapid pace at
which she used to run when playing at tag, ran through the ballroom to
the anteroom and downstairs into the yard.
The servants gathered round Natasha, but could not believe the
strange order she brought them until the count himself, in his
wife's name, confirmed the order to give up all the carts to the
wounded and take the trunks to the storerooms. When they understood
that order the servants set to work at this new task with pleasure and
zeal. It no longer seemed strange to them but on the contrary it
seemed the only thing that could be done, just as a quarter of an hour
before it had not seemed strange to anyone that the wounded should
be left behind and the goods carted away but that had seemed the
only thing to do.
The whole household, as if to atone for not having done it sooner,
set eagerly to work at the new task of placing the wounded in the
carts. The wounded dragged themselves out of their rooms and stood
with pale but happy faces round the carts. The news that carts were to
be had spread to the neighboring houses, from which wounded men
began to come into the Rostovs' yard. Many of the wounded asked them
not to unload the carts but only to let them sit on the top of the
things. But the work of unloading, once started, could not be
arrested. It seemed not to matter whether all or only half the
things were left behind. Cases full of china, bronzes, pictures, and
mirrors that had been so carefully packed the night before now lay
about the yard, and still they went on searching for and finding
possibilities of unloading this or that and letting the wounded have
another and yet another cart.
"We can take four more men," said the steward. "They can have my
trap, or else what is to become of them?"
"Let them have my wardrobe cart," said the countess. "Dunyasha can
go with me in the carriage."
They unloaded the wardrobe cart and sent it to take wounded men from
a house two doors off. The whole household, servants included, was
bright and animated. Natasha was in a state of rapturous excitement
such as she had not known for a long time.
"What could we fasten this onto?" asked the servants, trying to
fix a trunk on the narrow footboard behind a carriage. "We must keep
at least one cart."
"What's in it?" asked Natasha.
"The count's books."
"Leave it, Vasilich will put it away. It's not wanted."
The phaeton was full of people and there was a doubt as to where
Count Peter could sit.
"On the box. You'll sit on the box, won't you, Petya?" cried
Natasha.
Sonya too was busy all this time, but the aim of her efforts was
quite different from Natasha's. She was putting away the things that
had to be left behind and making a list of them as the countess
wished, and she tried to get as much taken away with them as possible. _
Read next: Book Eleven: 1812: Chapter 17
Read previous: Book Eleven: 1812: Chapter 15
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