| THE ROSTOVS’ SON-IN-LAW, Berg, was by now a colonel, with the orders of Vladimir and Anne on his neck, and was still filling the same comfortable and agreeable post of assistant to the head of the staff of the assistant of the chief officer of the staff of the commander of the left flank of the infantry of the first army. On the 1st of September he had come into Moscow from the army. He had absolutely nothing to do in Moscow; but he noticed that every one in the army was asking leave to go into Moscow, and was busy doing something there. He, too, thought fit to ask leave of absence on account of urgent domestic and family affairs. Berg drove up to his father-in-law’s house in his spruce chaise, with his pair of sleek roans, precisely similar to those of a certain prince. He looked carefully at the luggage in the yard, and as he ran up the steps, he took out a clean pocket-handkerchief, and tied a knot in it. Berg ran with a swimming, impatient step from the entry into the drawing-room, embraced the count, kissed Natasha’s hand and Sonya’s, and then hastened to inquire after mamma’s health. “Health, at a time like this! Come, tell us what news of the army!” said the count. “Are they retreating, or will there be a battle?” “Only Almighty God can tell what will be the fate of our Fatherland, papa,” said Berg. “The army is animated by the most ardent spirit of heroism, and now its chiefs, so to speak, are sitting in council. No one knows what is coming. But I can tell you, papa, that our heroic spirit, the truly antique valour of the Russian army, which they—it, I mean,” he corrected himself—“showed in the fight of the 26th … well, there are no words that can do justice to it.” (He smote himself on the chest just as he had seen a general do, who had used much the same phrases before him—but he was a little too late, for the blow on the chest should properly have been at the words, “the Russian army.”) “I can assure you, papa, that we officers, so far from having to urge the soldiers on, or anything of the sort, had much ado to keep in check this … yes, these exploits recalling the valour of antiquity,” he rattled off. “General Barclay de Tolly risked his life everywhere in front of his troops, I can assure you. Our corps was posted on the slope of a hill. Only fancy!” And Berg proceeded to recount all the stories he had heard repeated about the battle. Natasha stared at Berg, as though seeking the solution of some problem in his face, and her eyes disconcerted him. “Altogether, the heroism shown by the Russian soldiers is beyond praise, and beyond description!” said Berg, looking at Natasha; and as though wishing to soften her, he smiled in response to her persistent stare … “ ‘Russia is not in Moscow, she lives in the hearts of her sons!’ Eh, papa?” said Berg. At that moment the countess came in from the divan-room with a look of weariness and annoyance on her face. Berg skipped up, kissed the countess’s hand, asked after her health, and stood beside her, with a sympathetic shake of his head. “Yes, mamma, to tell the truth, these are hard and sorrowful times for every Russian. But why should you be so anxious? You have still time to get away …” “I can’t make out what the servants are about,” said the countess, addressing her husband. “They told me just now nothing was ready. Some one really must go and look after them. It’s at such times one misses Mitenka. There will be no end to it.” The count was about to make some reply; but with a visible effort to restrain himself, got up and went to the door without a word. Berg, meanwhile, had taken out his handkerchief as though about to blow his nose, and, seeing the knot in it, he pondered a moment, shaking his head with mournful significance. “And, do you know, papa, I have a great favour to ask …” he began. “H’m?” said the count, pausing. “I was passing by Yusupov’s house just now,” said Berg, laughing. “The steward, a man I know, ran out and asked me whether I wouldn’t care to buy any of their things. I went in, you know, out of curiosity, and there is a little chiffonier and dressing-table. You know, just like what Verushka wanted, and we quarrelled about.” (Berg unconsciously passed into a tone expressive of his pleasure in his own excellent domestic arrangements.) “And such a charming thing!—it moves forward, you know, with a secret English lock. And it’s just what Verushka wanted. So I want to make it a surprise for her. I see what a number of peasants you have in the yard. Please, spare me one of them. I’ll pay him well, and …” The count frowned and sniffed. “Ask the countess; I don’t give the orders.” “If it’s troublesome, pray don’t,” said Berg. “Only I should have liked it on Vera’s account.” “Ah, go to damnation all of you, damnation! damnation! damnation!” cried the old count. “My head’s going round.” And he went out of the room. The countess began to cry. “Yes, indeed, these are terrible times, mamma!” said Berg. Natasha went out with her father, and as though unable to make up her mind on some difficult question, she followed him at first, then turned and ran downstairs. Petya was standing at the entrance, engaged in giving out weapons to the servants, who were leaving Moscow. The loaded waggons were still standing in the yards. Two of them had been uncorded, and on to one of these the wounded officer was clambering with the assistance of his orderly. “Do you know what it was about?” Petya asked Natasha. (Natasha knew that he meant, what their father and mother had been quarrelling about.) She did not answer. “It was because papa wanted to give up all the waggons to the wounded,” said Petya. “Vassilitch told me. And what I think …” “What I think,” Natasha suddenly almost screamed, turning a furious face on Petya, “what I think is, that it’s so vile, so loathsome … I don’t know. Are we a lot of low Germans? …” Her throat was quivering with sobs, but afraid of being weak, or wasting the force of her anger, she turned and flew headlong up the stairs. Berg was sitting beside the countess, trying with filial respectfulness to reassure her. The count was walking about the room with a pipe in his hand, when, with a face distorted by passion, Natasha burst like a tempest into the room, and ran with rapid steps up to her mother. “It’s vile! It’s loathsome!” she screamed. “It can’t be true that it’s your order.” Berg and the countess gazed at her in alarm and bewilderment. The count stood still in the window listening. “Mamma, it’s impossible; look what’s being done in the yard!” she cried; “they are being left …” “What’s the matter? Who are they? What do you want?” “The wounded! It’s impossible, mamma, it’s outrageous.… No, mamma, darling, it’s all wrong; forgive me, please, darling … Mamma, what is it to us what we take away; you only look out into the yard.… Mamma! … It can’t be done.…” The count stood in the window, and listened to Natasha without turning his head. All at once he gave a sort of gulp, 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 emotion, felt why her husband would not look at her now, and looked about her with a distracted air. “Oh, do as you please. Am I doing anything to hinder any one?” she said, not giving way all at once. “Mamma, darling, forgive me.” But the countess pushed away her daughter, and went up to the count. “My dear, you order what is right.… I don’t understand about it, you know,” she said, dropping her eyes with a guilty air. “The eggs, … the eggs teaching the hen, …” the count murmured through tears of gladness, and he embraced his wife, who was glad to hide her ashamed face on his breast. “Papa, mamma! may I give the order? May I? …” asked Natasha. “We’ll take all that’s quite necessary all the same,” she added. The count nodded; and Natasha, with the same swiftness with which she used to run at “catch-catch,” flew across the hall into the vestibule, and down the steps into the yard. The servants gathered round Natasha, and could hardly believe the strange order she gave them, till the count himself in his wife’s name confirmed the order that all the waggons were to be placed at the disposal of the wounded, and the boxes were to be taken down to the store-rooms. When they understood, the servants gleefully and busily set to this new task. It no longer seemed strange to the servants, it seemed to them, indeed, that no other course was possible; just as a quarter of an hour before they had not thought it strange to leave the wounded behind and take the furniture; had accepted that too, in fact, as the only course possible. All the household set to work getting the wounded men into the waggons with the greatest zeal, as though to make up for not having espoused their cause earlier. The wounded soldiers came creeping out of their rooms, and crowded round the waggons, with pale, delighted faces. The news spread to the neighbouring houses, and wounded men began to come into the yard from other houses too. Many of the wounded soldiers begged them not to take out the boxes, but only to let them sit on the top of them. But when once the work of unloading had begun there was no stopping it; it seemed of little consequence whether all were left or half. The cases of china, of bronzes, of pictures and looking-glasses, which had been so carefully packed during the previous night lay in the yard, and still they sought and found possibilities of taking out more and more, and leaving more and more, for the wounded. “We can take four more,” said the steward. “I’ll leave my luggage, or else what is to become of them?” “Oh, let them have our wardrobe cart,” said the countess; “Dunyasha will go with me in the carriage.” The waggon packed with the ladies’ wardrobe was unloaded, and sent to fetch wounded men from two doors off. All the family and the servants too were eager and merry. Natasha was in a state of ecstatic happiness, such as she had not known for a very long while. “Where are we to fasten this on?” said the servant, trying to lay a trunk on the narrow footboard behind in the carriage. “We must keep just one cart for it.” “What is it?” asked Natasha. “The count’s books.” “Leave it. Vassilitch will put it away. That’s not necessary.” The covered gig was full of people; they were only in doubt where Pyotr Ilyitch was to sit. “He’ll go on the box. You’ll go on the box, won’t you, Petya?” cried Natasha. Sonya, too, worked with unflagging zeal; but the aim of her exertions was the opposite of Natasha’s. She saw to the storing away of all that was left behind, made a list of them at the countess’s desire, and tried to get as much as possible taken with them. | 