________________________________________________
_ Before two o'clock in the afternoon the Rostovs' four carriages,
packed full and with the horses harnessed, stood at the front door.
One by one the carts with the wounded had moved out of the yard.
The caleche in which Prince Andrew was being taken attracted Sonya's
attention as it passed the front porch. With the help of a maid she
was arranging a seat for the countess in the huge high coach that
stood at the entrance.
"Whose caleche is that?" she inquired, leaning out of the carriage
window.
"Why, didn't you know, Miss?" replied the maid. "The wounded prince:
he spent the night in our house and is going with us."
"But who is it? What's his name?"
"It's our intended that was- Prince Bolkonski himself! They say he
is dying," replied the maid with a sigh.
Sonya jumped out of the coach and ran to the countess. The countess,
tired out and already dressed in shawl and bonnet for her journey, was
pacing up and down the drawing room, waiting for the household to
assemble for the usual silent prayer with closed doors before
starting. Natasha was not in the room.
"Mamma," said Sonya, "Prince Andrew is here, mortally wounded. He is
going with us."
The countess opened her eyes in dismay and, seizing Sonya's arm,
glanced around.
"Natasha?" she murmured.
At that moment this news had only one significance for both of them.
They knew their Natasha, and alarm as to what would happen if she
heard this news stifled all sympathy for the man they both liked.
"Natasha does not know yet, but he is going with us," said Sonya.
"You say he is dying?"
Sonya nodded.
The countess put her arms around Sonya and began to cry.
"The ways of God are past finding out!" she thought, feeling that
the Almighty Hand, hitherto unseen, was becoming manifest in all
that was now taking place.
"Well, Mamma? Everything is ready. What's the matter?" asked
Natasha, as with animated face she ran into the room.
"Nothing," answered the countess. "If everything is ready let us
start."
And the countess bent over her reticule to hide her agitated face.
Sonya embraced Natasha and kissed her.
Natasha looked at her inquiringly.
"What is it? What has happened?"
"Nothing... No..."
"Is it something very bad for me? What is it?" persisted Natasha
with her quick intuition.
Sonya sighed and made no reply. The count, Petya, Madame Schoss,
Mavra Kuzminichna, and Vasilich came into the drawing room and, having
closed the doors, they all sat down and remained for some moments
silently seated without looking at one another.
The count was the first to rise, and with a loud sigh crossed
himself before the icon. All the others did the same. Then the count
embraced Mavra Kuzminichna and Vasilich, who were to remain in Moscow,
and while they caught at his hand and kissed his shoulder he patted
their backs lightly with some vaguely affectionate and comforting
words. The countess went into the oratory and there Sonya found her on
her knees before the icons that had been left here and there hanging
on the wall. (The most precious ones, with which some family tradition
was connected, were being taken with them.)
In the porch and in the yard the men whom Petya had armed with
swords and daggers, with trousers tucked inside their high boots and
with belts and girdles tightened, were taking leave of those remaining
behind.
As is always the case at a departure, much had been forgotten or put
in the wrong place, and for a long time two menservants stood one on
each side of the open door and the carriage steps waiting to help
the countess in, while maids rushed with cushions and bundles from the
house to the carriages, the caleche, the phaeton, and back again.
"They always will forget everything!" said the countess. "Don't
you know I can't sit like that?"
And Dunyasha, with clenched teeth, without replying but with an
aggrieved look on her face, hastily got into the coach to rearrange
the seat.
"Oh, those servants!" said the count, swaying his head.
Efim, the old coachman, who was the only one the countess trusted to
drive her, sat perched up high on the box and did not so much as
glance round at what was going on behind him. From thirty years'
experience he knew it would be some time yet before the order, "Be
off, in God's name!" would be given him: and he knew that even when it
was said he would be stopped once or twice more while they sent back
to fetch something that had been forgotten, and even after that he
would again be stopped and the countess herself would lean out of
the window and beg him for the love of heaven to drive carefully
down the hill. He knew all this and therefore waited calmly for what
would happen, with more patience than the horses, especially the
near one, the chestnut Falcon, who was pawing the ground and
champing his bit. At last all were seated, the carriage steps were
folded and pulled up, the door was shut, somebody was sent for a
traveling case, and the countess leaned out and said what she had to
say. Then Efim deliberately doffed his hat and began crossing himself.
The postilion and all the other servants did the same. "Off, in
God's name!" said Efim, putting on his hat. "Start!" The postilion
started the horses, the off pole horse tugged at his collar, the
high springs creaked, and the body of the coach swayed. The footman
sprang onto the box of the moving coach which jolted as it passed
out of the yard onto the uneven roadway; the other vehicles jolted
in their turn, and the procession of carriages moved up the street. In
the carriages, the caleche, and the phaeton, all crossed themselves as
they passed the church opposite the house. Those who were to remain in
Moscow walked on either side of the vehicles seeing the travelers off.
Rarely had Natasha experienced so joyful a feeling as now, sitting
in the carriage beside the countess and gazing at the slowly
receding walls of forsaken, agitated Moscow. Occasionally she leaned
out of the carriage window and looked back and then forward at the
long train of wounded in front of them. Almost at the head of the line
she could see the raised hood of Prince Andrew's caleche. She did
not know who was in it, but each time she looked at the procession her
eyes sought that caleche. She knew it was right in front.
In Kudrino, from the Nikitski, Presnya, and Podnovinsk Streets
came several other trains of vehicles similar to the Rostovs', and
as they passed along the Sadovaya Street the carriages and carts
formed two rows abreast.
As they were going round the Sukharev water tower Natasha, who was
inquisitively and alertly scrutinizing the people driving or walking
past, suddenly cried out in joyful surprise:
"Dear me! Mamma, Sonya, look, it's he!"
"Who? Who?"
"Look! Yes, on my word, it's Bezukhov!" said Natasha, putting her
head out of the carriage and staring at a tall, stout man in a
coachman's long coat, who from his manner of walking and moving was
evidently a gentleman in disguise, and who was passing under the
arch of the Sukharev tower accompanied by a small, sallow-faced,
beardless old man in a frieze coat.
"Yes, it really is Bezukhov in a coachman's coat, with a
queer-looking old boy. Really," said Natasha, "look, look!"
"No, it's not he. How can you talk such nonsense?"
"Mamma," screamed Natasha, "I'll stake my head it's he! I assure
you! Stop, stop!" she cried to the coachman.
But the coachman could not stop, for from the Meshchanski Street
came more carts and carriages, and the Rostovs were being shouted at
to move on and not block the way.
In fact, however, though now much farther off than before, the
Rostovs all saw Pierre- or someone extraordinarily like him- in a
coachman's coat, going down the street with head bent and a serious
face beside a small, beardless old man who looked like a footman. That
old man noticed a face thrust out of the carriage window gazing at
them, and respectfully touching Pierre's elbow said something to him
and pointed to the carriage. Pierre, evidently engrossed in thought,
could not at first understand him. At length when he had understood
and looked in the direction the old man indicated, he recognized
Natasha, and following his first impulse stepped instantly and rapidly
toward the coach. But having taken a dozen steps he seemed to remember
something and stopped.
Natasha's face, leaning out of the window, beamed with quizzical
kindliness.
"Peter Kirilovich, come here! We have recognized you! This is
wonderful!" she cried, holding out her hand to him. "What are you
doing? Why are you like this?"
Pierre took her outstretched hand and kissed it awkwardly as he
walked along beside her while the coach still moved on.
"What is the matter, Count?" asked the countess in a surprised and
commiserating tone.
"What? What? Why? Don't ask me," said Pierre, and looked round at
Natasha whose radiant, happy expression- of which he was conscious
without looking at her- filled him with enchantment.
"Are you remaining in Moscow, then?"
Pierre hesitated.
"In Moscow?" he said in a questioning tone. "Yes, in Moscow.
Goodby!"
"Ah, if only I were a man? I'd certainly stay with you. How
splendid!" said Natasha. "Mamma, if you'll let me, I'll stay!"
Pierre glanced absently at Natasha and was about to say something,
but the countess interrupted him.
"You were at the battle, we heard."
"Yes, I was," Pierre answered. "There will be another battle
tomorrow..." he began, but Natasha interrupted him.
"But what is the matter with you, Count? You are not like
yourself...."
"Oh, don't ask me, don't ask me! I don't know myself. Tomorrow...
But no! Good-by, good-by!" he muttered. "It's an awful time!" and
dropping behind the carriage he stepped onto the pavement.
Natasha continued to lean out of the window for a long time, beaming
at him with her kindly, slightly quizzical, happy smile. _
Read next: Book Eleven: 1812: Chapter 18
Read previous: Book Eleven: 1812: Chapter 16
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