The servants gathered round Natasha, reluctant to believe the curious instructions she was giving out, until the count himself appeared and on behalf of his wife confirmed that all the carts were to be made available for the wounded and the boxes put into storage. Once they understood this, the servants set to with a new will and much enthusiasm. The new development no longer seemed strange; it seemed the most natural thing in the world, just as a quarter of an hour earlier they hadn’t thought it the least bit strange to be leaving wounded men behind and taking the furniture – that too had seemed the most natural thing in the world.
The entire household rallied round and tackled the business of getting the wounded into the wagons, as if they wanted to make up for having neglected it earlier. The wounded soldiers came crawling out of their rooms and crowded round the wagons, pale-faced but happy. The news that there was transport available soon got round the neighbouring houses, and wounded men started trickling into the yard from other places. Many of the wounded soldiers asked them not to take out the boxes – just let them sit on top. But once the unloading process was under way there was no stopping it. It made no difference whether they left everything or only half the stuff behind. Cases full of china, bronzes, pictures and mirrors, so carefully stowed the night before, now lay neglected in the yard, and still they continued to find new ways of taking more and more things out and leaving more and more wagons for the wounded.
‘We can take four more,’ said the steward. ‘They can have my trap too, or anything might happen to them.’
‘Oh, do let them have our wardrobe cart,’ said the countess. ‘Dunyasha can come with me in the carriage.’
The wardrobe wagon was unloaded and dispatched to pick up wounded men two houses away. Family and servants were bubbling with excitement. Natasha was ecstatic, much happier than she had been for a very long time.
‘What can we fasten this to?’ said a servant, struggling with a trunk wedged on the narrow footboard at the back of the carriage. ‘It’s got to go on a cart.’
‘What is it?’ asked Natasha.
‘The count’s books.’
‘Oh, leave it. Vasilich will take care of that. We don’t need it.’
With the big carriage full of people the question was: where was Petya going to sit?
‘He’ll go up on the box. You’ll go up on the box, won’t you, Petya?’ Natasha called out.
Sonya was working flat out too, but her aim was the opposite of Natasha’s. She was seeing to the stowage of everything left behind, drawing up an inventory at the countess’s request, and trying to get them to take as much as possible with them.
CHAPTER 17
Just before two o’clock the Rostovs’ four carriages, packed and ready for the road, stood waiting by the front door. One by one wagon-loads of wounded men were trundling out of the courtyard.
A vehicle carrying Prince Andrey was on its way past the front steps when it was noticed by Sonya, who was helping one of the maids to arrange comfortable seating for the countess in her huge, high carriage.
‘Whose carriage is that?’ asked Sonya, popping her head out of the carriage window.
‘Oh, haven’t you heard, miss?’ answered the maid. ‘It’s the wounded prince. He stayed here last night, and he’s coming on with us.’
‘Oh, who is he? What’s his name?’
‘It’s our intended that was . . . Prince Bolkonsky!’ answered the maid with a sigh. ‘They say he’s dying.’
Sonya jumped out of the carriage and ran in to see the countess. The countess, dressed for the road in hat and shawl, was pacing wearily up and down the drawing-room, waiting for the rest of the household to come in and sit down behind closed doors for the usual silent prayer before starting out. Natasha wasn’t there.
‘Mamma,’ said Sonya, ‘Prince Andrey’s here. He’s wounded and dying. He’s coming on with us.’
The countess’s eyes widened in alarm; she snatched at Sonya’s arm, and took a look round.
‘What about Natasha?’ she said.
For both of them this news could have only one meaning. They knew their Natasha, and worrying about how this news might affect her overrode any sympathy for the man himself, however much affection they might have for him.
‘Natasha doesn’t know yet, but he is coming with us,’ said Sonya.
‘You say he is dying?’
Sonya nodded.
The countess hugged Sonya and burst into tears. ‘God moves in a mysterious way!’ she thought, sensing in this turn of events the hand of the Almighty, hitherto hidden from the eyes of man.
‘All right, Mamma, we’re completely ready! What’s wrong? . . .’ asked Natasha, rushing in all excited.
‘Oh, nothing,’ said the countess. ‘If we’re ready, let’s be on our way.’ And the countess bent over her reticule to conceal her worried face. Sonya gave Natasha a hug and a kiss.
Natasha looked puzzled.
‘What’s all this? What’s happened?’
‘Nothing’s happened . . . Nothing . . .’
Natasha was not to be fooled.
‘It’s something awful, and it affects me . . . What is it?’ she asked.
