‘I will not,’ yelled Natasha, using one hand to flick her tousled hair away from her sweating face and the other to press down on the rugs. ‘Come on, Petya, squash it down! Press hard!’ she cried. The rugs sank down and the lid snapped to. Natasha clapped her hands and shrieked with delight while the tears came to her eyes. But that lasted no longer than a second. She was off on another job, and now the servants trusted her completely, the count didn’t object when he heard that his daughter had told them to ignore his instructions, and the servants started coming to Natasha to ask whether a cart was properly loaded and could they rope it down. It was all going swimmingly now, with Natasha in charge. Anything useless was left behind and the things that mattered were stowed with maximum efficiency.
But despite their best efforts night came and they were still not quite packed and ready. The countess had fallen asleep, and the count put off the departure till morning and went off to bed.
Sonya and Natasha slept in the sitting-room, without taking their clothes off.
That night another wounded officer was driven along Povarsky Street, and Mavra, who was standing at the gate, had him brought into the Rostovs’ yard. She could only surmise that he must be a man of some importance. He was being transported in a four-wheeled carriage with the hood down and the apron all across the front. Up on the box sitting alongside the driver was a venerable-looking old valet. A doctor and two soldiers were following this carriage in a smaller one.
‘Please come in here, come on in. The masters are on their way out. The whole place is empty,’ said the old woman to the old servant.
‘Well,’ answered the valet with a sigh, ‘we’re not going to make it. We have our own house in Moscow, but it’s a long way out, and there’s no one there.’
‘Well, do come in here, our masters have got plenty of everything, and you’re very welcome,’ said Mavra. ‘Is the gentleman very bad, then?’ she asked.
The valet’s gesture spoke volumes.
‘He won’t make it. Better ask the doctor.’ And the valet got down and went to the vehicle behind.
‘Very good,’ said the doctor.
The valet came back to the front carriage, took a look inside, shook his head, told the coachman to turn into the yard, and stood there at Mavra’s side.
‘Oh, Lord Jesus Christ!’ she murmured.
Mavra told them to bring the wounded man indoors.
‘The masters won’t mind . . .’ she said.
But they had to avoid carrying him up any steps, so they took the wounded man to the lodge, and put him in the room that had been Madame Schoss’s.
The wounded man was Prince Andrey Bolkonsky.
CHAPTER 15
Moscow’s last day had dawned. The autumn weather was bright and clear. It was Sunday. As on any other Sunday church bells were summoning the faithful. By all appearances no one could have been anticipating what was in store for the city.
There were only two social indicators that reflected the position Moscow was in: the activity of the poor people or hoi polloi, and prices. Early that morning factory workers, house serfs and peasants came flocking out on to the Three Hills, mingling with clerks, divinity students and members of the gentry. They lingered there for a while waiting for Rostopchin, but his non-appearance told them for certain that Moscow was going to be surrendered, so they swarmed back into the city and dispersed among all the taverns and public houses of Moscow. Prices, too, were a good indicator of how things stood that day. The prices of weapons, horses and carts and the value of gold rose steadily, while the value of paper money and household goods was in steep decline, so that by early afternoon there were instances of drivers going halves over any luxury goods like cloth that they were delivering, and whereas a peasant’s horse would fetch five hundred roubles, furniture, mirrors and bronzes could be had for nothing.
