Bab Bab 244 · 第244章

Moscow’s last day had come. It was a clear bright autumn day, a Sunday.

The church bells everywhere were ringing for service, just as usual on

Sundays. Nobody seemed yet to realize what awaited the city.

Only two things indicated the social condition of Moscow—the rabble,

that is the poor people, and the price of commodities. An enormous crowd

of factory hands, house serfs, and peasants, with whom some officials,

seminarists, and gentry were mingled, had gone early that morning to

the Three Hills. Having waited there for Rostopchín who did not turn

up, they became convinced that Moscow would be surrendered, and then

dispersed all about the town to the public houses and cookshops. Prices

too that day indicated the state of affairs. The price of weapons, of

gold, of carts and horses, kept rising, but the value of paper money and

city articles kept falling, so that by midday there were instances of

carters removing valuable goods, such as cloth, and receiving in payment

a half of what they carted, while peasant horses were fetching five

hundred rubles each, and furniture, mirrors, and bronzes were being

given away for nothing.

In the Rostóvs’ staid old-fashioned house the dissolution of former

conditions of life was but little noticeable. As to the serfs the only

indication was that three out of their huge retinue disappeared

during the night, but nothing was stolen; and as to the value of their

possessions, the thirty peasant carts that had come in from their

estates and which many people envied proved to be extremely valuable and

they were offered enormous sums of money for them. Not only were huge

sums offered for the horses and carts, but on the previous evening and

early in the morning of the first of September, orderlies and servants

sent by wounded officers came to the Rostóvs’ and wounded men dragged

themselves there from the Rostóvs’ and from neighboring houses where

they were accommodated, entreating the servants to try to get them

a lift out of Moscow. The major-domo to whom these entreaties were

addressed, though he was sorry for the wounded, resolutely refused,

saying that he dare not even mention the matter to the count. Pity these

wounded men as one might, it was evident that if they were given one

cart there would be no reason to refuse another, or all the carts and

one’s own carriages as well. Thirty carts could not save all the wounded

and in the general catastrophe one could not disregard oneself and one’s

own family. So thought the major-domo on his master’s behalf.

On waking up that morning Count Ilyá Rostóv left his bedroom softly, so

as not to wake the countess who had fallen asleep only toward morning,

and came out to the porch in his lilac silk dressing gown. In the yard

stood the carts ready corded. The carriages were at the front porch.

The major-domo stood at the porch talking to an elderly orderly and to

a pale young officer with a bandaged arm. On seeing the count the

major-domo made a significant and stern gesture to them both to go away.

“Well, Vasílich, is everything ready?” asked the count, and stroking his

bald head he looked good-naturedly at the officer and the orderly and

nodded to them. (He liked to see new faces.)

“We can harness at once, your excellency.”

“Well, that’s right. As soon as the countess wakes we’ll be off, God

willing! What is it, gentlemen?” he added, turning to the officer. “Are

you staying in my house?”

The officer came nearer and suddenly his face flushed crimson.

“Count, be so good as to allow me... for God’s sake, to get into some

corner of one of your carts! I have nothing here with me.... I shall be

all right on a loaded cart....”

Before the officer had finished speaking the orderly made the same

request on behalf of his master.

“Oh, yes, yes, yes!” said the count hastily. “I shall be very pleased,

very pleased. Vasílich, you’ll see to it. Just unload one or two carts.

Well, what of it... do what’s necessary...” said the count, muttering

some indefinite order.

But at the same moment an expression of warm gratitude on the officer’s

face had already sealed the order. The count looked around him. In the

yard, at the gates, at the window of the wings, wounded officers and

their orderlies were to be seen. They were all looking at the count and

moving toward the porch.

“Please step into the gallery, your excellency,” said the major-domo.

“What are your orders about the pictures?”

The count went into the house with him, repeating his order not to

refuse the wounded who asked for a lift.

“Well, never mind, some of the things can be unloaded,” he added in a

soft, confidential voice, as though afraid of being overheard.

At nine o’clock the countess woke up, and Matrëna Timoféevna, who had

been her lady’s maid before her marriage and now performed a sort of

chief gendarme’s duty for her, came to say that Madame Schoss was much

offended and the young ladies’ summer dresses could not be left behind.

On inquiry, the countess learned that Madame Schoss was offended because

her trunk had been taken down from its cart, and all the loads were

being uncorded and the luggage taken out of the carts to make room for

wounded men whom the count in the simplicity of his heart had ordered

that they should take with them. The countess sent for her husband.

“What is this, my dear? I hear that the luggage is being unloaded.”

“You know, love, I wanted to tell you... Countess dear... an officer

came to me to ask for a few carts for the wounded. After all, ours are

things that can be bought but think what being left behind means to

them!... Really now, in our own yard—we asked them in ourselves and

there are officers among them.... You know, I think, my dear... let them

be taken... where’s the hurry?”

The count spoke timidly, as he always did when talking of money matters.

The countess was accustomed to this tone as a precursor of news of

something detrimental to the children’s interests, such as the building

of a new gallery or conservatory, the inauguration of a private theater

or an orchestra. She was accustomed always to oppose anything announced

in that timid tone and considered it her duty to do so.

She assumed her dolefully submissive manner and said to her husband:

“Listen to me, Count, you have managed matters so that we are getting

nothing for the house, and now you wish to throw away all our—all the

children’s property! You said yourself that we have a hundred thousand

rubles’ worth of things in the house. I don’t consent, my dear, I don’t!

Do as you please! It’s the government’s business to look after the

wounded; they know that. Look at the Lopukhíns opposite, they cleared

out everything two days ago. That’s what other people do. It’s only

we who are such fools. If you have no pity on me, have some for the

children.”

Flourishing his arms in despair the count left the room without

replying.

“Papa, what are you doing that for?” asked Natásha, who had followed him

into her mother’s room.

“Nothing! What business is it of yours?” muttered the count angrily.

“But I heard,” said Natásha. “Why does Mamma object?”

“What business is it of yours?” cried the count.

Natásha stepped up to the window and pondered.

“Papa! Here’s Berg coming to see us,” said she, looking out of the

window.