‘I can’t work out what the servants are up to,’ said the countess to her husband. ‘They’ve just told me we’re nowhere near ready. Someone will have to go and take charge. It’s at times like this that one misses Mitenka. I can’t see an end to it.’
The count was on the verge of a reply, but he bit it back with a visible effort, got to his feet and walked over to the door.
Berg, meanwhile, had taken out his handkerchief as if he was going to blow his nose, and when he saw the knot in it, he paused for a moment’s thought, shaking his head in a lugubrious, meaningful way.
‘By the way, Papa, I have a great favour to ask you . . .’ he began.
‘Hm?’ said the count, pausing.
‘I was going past Yusupov’s place just now,’ said Berg with a laugh, ‘when their steward, a man I know, came running out and asked whether I might like to buy any of their things. I popped in, you know, just out of curiosity, and there was this sweet little chiffonier and a dressing-table. You remember, the very thing my dear Vera wanted, and we quarrelled about.’ (At the mention of the chiffonier and dressing-table Berg had slipped unconsciously into a tone that showed how delighted he was with his lovely domestic set-up.) ‘And such a delightful piece! It’s got a secret English drawer – you know the sort. Just what my little Vera has been wanting. I’d love to give it to her as a nice little surprise. I noticed you have lots of peasants down in the yard. Please could I borrow one of them? I’ll pay him well, and . . .’
The count scowled and cleared his throat.
‘Ask the countess. I don’t give the orders.’
‘If it’s any trouble please don’t bother,’ said Berg. ‘Only, I’d love to get it for Vera.’
‘Oh, to hell with the lot of you! Hell and damnation! Hell and damnation!’ roared the old count. ‘My head’s spinning.’ And he walked out of the room.
The countess burst into tears.
‘Yes, indeed, these are terrible times, Mamma!’ said Berg.
Natasha had left the room with her father, and she seemed to be in two minds. First she followed him, then she turned back and ran downstairs.
Petya was standing on the steps busily issuing weapons to the servants who were leaving Moscow. The loaded carts were still there in the courtyard. Two had been unroped, and the wounded officer was clambering aboard one of them with some assistance from his orderly.
‘What’s it all about?’ Petya asked Natasha. (Natasha knew what he meant: why were their father and mother at loggerheads?) She didn’t answer.
‘I know. Because Papa wanted to give all the carts to the wounded men,’ said Petya. ‘Vasilich told me. If you want my opinion . . .’
‘My opinion!’ Natasha turned a furious face on Petya, virtually yelling at him. ‘In my opinion, it’s all so horrible! It’s vile! . . . Oh, I don’t know. We’re like a load of Germans! . . .’ Her throat was racked with sobs, but she didn’t want to break down or waste the full effect of her fury, so she turned and flew back up the steps.
Berg was sitting beside the countess, summoning up all his powers of filial consideration in an effort to soothe her. The count was pacing up and down the room, pipe in hand, when Natasha stormed into the room, her features contorted with fury, and raced across to her mother.
‘It’s horrible! It’s just vile!’ she screamed. ‘You can’t possibly have given orders like that!’
Berg and the countess stared at her in alarm and bewilderment. The count had come to a halt by the window, and he was listening.
‘Mamma, it’s impossible. Look what’s happening down in the yard!’ she cried. ‘They’re being left behind!’
‘What’s wrong with you? Who are? What do you want?’
‘The wounded men! It’s impossible, Mamma. It’s outrageous . . . No listen, Mamma, darling, it’s all wrong. I’m sorry, but please, darling . . . Mamma, it doesn’t matter what we take with us. Just look down there in the yard . . . Mamma! . . . You can’t do it!’
The count stood by the window, listening to Natasha without looking round. All at once he choked, and pressed his face against the window.
The countess glanced at her daughter, saw she was ashamed of her own mother, saw her agitation, suddenly realized why her husband wouldn’t look round at her, and stared about with a distracted air.
‘Oh, do what you want! I’m not stopping anybody doing anything,’ she said, giving in gradually.
‘Mamma, darling, I am sorry.’
But the countess pushed her daughter away, and went over to the count.
‘You give the orders, dear. You tell them . . . I don’t know what I’m doing,’ she said, looking down shamefacedly.
‘Out of the mouths of babes . . .’ murmured the count through tears of joy, and he hugged his wife, who was only too pleased to bury her face of shame on his breast.
‘Papa, Mamma! Let me give the orders. May I?’ asked Natasha. ‘We’ll still take all the really important things,’ she added.
The count nodded, and Natasha was off, racing away like a chasing child across the big hall, through the ante-room and down the front steps to the courtyard.
