War and Peace

n Saturday, the thirty-first of August, everything in the Rostóvs’
house seemed topsy-turvy. All the doors were open, all the furniture was
being carried out or moved about, and the mirrors and pictures had been
taken down. There were trunks in the rooms, and hay, wrapping paper, and
ropes were scattered about. The peasants and house serfs carrying out
the things were treading heavily on the parquet floors. The yard was
crowded with peasant carts, some loaded high and already corded up,
others still empty.

The voices and footsteps of the many servants and of the peasants who
had come with the carts resounded as they shouted to one another in
the yard and in the house. The count had been out since morning. The
countess had a headache brought on by all the noise and turmoil and was
lying down in the new sitting room with a vinegar compress on her head.
Pétya was not at home, he had gone to visit a friend with whom he meant
to obtain a transfer from the militia to the active army. Sónya was in
the ballroom looking after the packing of the glass and china. Natásha
was sitting on the floor of her dismantled room with dresses, ribbons,
and scarves strewn all about her, gazing fixedly at the floor and
holding in her hands the old ball dress (already out of fashion) which
she had worn at her first Petersburg ball.

Natásha was ashamed of doing nothing when everyone else was so busy, and
several times that morning had tried to set to work, but her heart was
not in it, and she could not and did not know how to do anything except
with all her heart and all her might. For a while she had stood beside
Sónya while the china was being packed and tried to help, but soon gave
it up and went to her room to pack her own things. At first she found it
amusing to give away dresses and ribbons to the maids, but when that was
done and what was left had still to be packed, she found it dull.

“Dunyásha, you pack! You will, won’t you, dear?” And when Dunyásha
willingly promised to do it all for her, Natásha sat down on the floor,
took her old ball dress, and fell into a reverie quite unrelated to what
ought to have occupied her thoughts now. She was roused from her reverie
by the talk of the maids in the next room (which was theirs) and by the
sound of their hurried footsteps going to the back porch. Natásha got
up and looked out of the window. An enormously long row of carts full of
wounded men had stopped in the street.

The housekeeper, the old nurse, the cooks, coachmen, maids, footmen,
postilions, and scullions stood at the gate, staring at the wounded.

Natásha, throwing a clean pocket handkerchief over her hair and holding
an end of it in each hand, went out into the street.

The former housekeeper, old Mávra Kuzmínichna, had stepped out of the
crowd by the gate, gone up to a cart with a hood constructed of bast
mats, and was speaking to a pale young officer who lay inside.
Natásha moved a few steps forward and stopped shyly, still holding her
handkerchief, and listened to what the housekeeper was saying.

“Then you have nobody in Moscow?” she was saying. “You would be more
comfortable somewhere in a house... in ours, for instance... the family
are leaving.”

“I don’t know if it would be allowed,” replied the officer in a weak
voice. “Here is our commanding officer... ask him,” and he pointed to a
stout major who was walking back along the street past the row of carts.

Natásha glanced with frightened eyes at the face of the wounded officer
and at once went to meet the major.

“May the wounded men stay in our house?” she asked.

The major raised his hand to his cap with a smile.

“Which one do you want, Ma’am’selle?” said he, screwing up his eyes and
smiling.

Natásha quietly repeated her question, and her face and whole
manner were so serious, though she was still holding the ends of her
handkerchief, that the major ceased smiling and after some reflection—as
if considering in how far the thing was possible—replied in the
affirmative.

“Oh yes, why not? They may,” he said.

With a slight inclination of her head, Natásha stepped back quickly to
Mávra Kuzmínichna, who stood talking compassionately to the officer.

“They may. He says they may!” whispered Natásha.

The cart in which the officer lay was turned into the Rostóvs’ yard,
and dozens of carts with wounded men began at the invitation of the
townsfolk to turn into the yards and to draw up at the entrances of the
houses in Povarskáya Street. Natásha was evidently pleased to be dealing
with new people outside the ordinary routine of her life. She and Mávra
Kuzmínichna tried to get as many of the wounded as possible into their
yard.

“Your Papa must be told, though,” said Mávra Kuzmínichna.

“Never mind, never mind, what does it matter? For one day we can move
into the drawing room. They can have all our half of the house.”

“There now, young lady, you do take things into your head! Even if we
put them into the wing, the men’s room, or the nurse’s room, we must ask
permission.”

“Well, I’ll ask.”

Natásha ran into the house and went on tiptoe through the half-open door
into the sitting room, where there was a smell of vinegar and Hoffman’s
drops.

“Are you asleep, Mamma?”

“Oh, what sleep—?” said the countess, waking up just as she was dropping
into a doze.

“Mamma darling!” said Natásha, kneeling by her mother and bringing her
face close to her mother’s, “I am sorry, forgive me, I’ll never do it
again; I woke you up! Mávra Kuzmínichna has sent me: they have brought
some wounded here—officers. Will you let them come? They have nowhere to
go. I knew you’d let them come!” she said quickly all in one breath.

“What officers? Whom have they brought? I don’t understand anything
about it,” said the countess.

Natásha laughed, and the countess too smiled slightly.

“I knew you’d give permission... so I’ll tell them,” and, having kissed
her mother, Natásha got up and went to the door.

In the hall she met her father, who had returned with bad news.

“We’ve stayed too long!” said the count with involuntary vexation. “The
Club is closed and the police are leaving.”

“Papa, is it all right—I’ve invited some of the wounded into the house?”
said Natásha.

“Of course it is,” he answered absently. “That’s not the point. I beg
you not to indulge in trifles now, but to help to pack, and tomorrow we
must go, go, go!...”

And the count gave a similar order to the major-domo and the servants.

At dinner Pétya having returned home told them the news he had heard.
He said the people had been getting arms in the Krémlin, and that though
Rostopchín’s broadsheet had said that he would sound a call two or three
days in advance, the order had certainly already been given for everyone
to go armed to the Three Hills tomorrow, and that there would be a big
battle there.

The countess looked with timid horror at her son’s eager, excited face
as he said this. She realized that if she said a word about his not
going to the battle (she knew he enjoyed the thought of the impending
engagement) he would say something about men, honor, and the
fatherland—something senseless, masculine, and obstinate which there
would be no contradicting, and her plans would be spoiled; and so,
hoping to arrange to leave before then and take Pétya with her as their
protector and defender, she did not answer him, but after dinner called
the count aside and implored him with tears to take her away quickly,
that very night if possible. With a woman’s involuntary loving cunning
she, who till then had not shown any alarm, said that she would die of
fright if they did not leave that very night. Without any pretense she
was now afraid of everything.