That night the Rostovs had stopped at Mytyshchi, about fifteen miles outside Moscow. They had set out so late on the 1st of September, the road had been so blocked with traffic and troops, so many things had been forgotten and servants sent back to get them, that they had decided to stop for the first night when they were only two or three miles out of town. They were late setting out the next morning, and again there were so many delays they got no further than Great Mytishchi. At ten o’clock the Rostov family, and the wounded soldiers travelling with them, had all found places for themselves in the yards and huts of the village, which was quite a large one. The Rostovs’ servants and drivers, along with the orderlies of the wounded officers, settled their masters for the night, had some supper, fed the horses and came out on to the wooden steps of one of the huts.
In the next hut lay one of Rayevsky’s adjutants, who was moaning and groaning in the most piteous way from the pain of a fractured wrist – a terrible sound that cut through the darkness of the autumn night. At the first stop this adjutant had spent the night in the same yard as the Rostovs. The countess claimed she had never closed an eye all night because of all the moaning, and at Mytyshchi she had moved into a less comfortable hut just to get further away from the wounded man.
It was one of the servants who noticed something in the dark night sky up above the body of a tall carriage by the entry: another small glow from a fire. They had seen one glow some time before, and everybody knew it came from Little Mytyshchi, where Mamonov’s Cossacks had set the place on fire.
‘Hey, look, boys! Another fire!’ said the orderly. They all looked across at the glow.
‘Yes, but they told us Mamonov’s Cossacks had set fire to Little Mytyshchi.’
‘Get away! That’s not Mytyshchi, it’s further in.’
‘Get an eyeful of that. Looks like it’s in Moscow.’
Two of the men went down the steps, walked round in front of the carriage and squatted on the step.
‘Yon’s too far left! Look, Mytyshchi’s way over there, and that’s miles away on the other side.’
More servants joined them.
‘That’s got going, that has,’ said one. ‘Gentlemen, Moscow’s on fire. It’s in Sushchovsky or mebbe Rogozhsky.’
There was no response. For some time all the servants stared in silence at the distant flames of this new conflagration. Old Danilo, the count’s valet (as he was called), came up to the crowd and shouted at little Mishka.
‘Stupid boy! Don’t stand there gawping! The count might want something and there’d be nobody there. Go and sort them clothes out.’
‘Hey, I only run out for some water,’ said Mishka.
‘What do you think, Danilo? Moscow’s on fire, isn’t it?’ asked one of the footmen.
Danilo said nothing, and again for quite some time they all stood there in silence. The blaze was moving; the glow was spreading.
‘Lord have mercy on us! . . . The wind’s gettin’ up, after all that drought . . .’ said the same voice.
‘That’s well on, that is. O Lord in heaven! Look, you can see the jackdaws! Lord, have mercy on us miserable sinners!’
‘Don’t worry. They’ll soon put that out.’
‘Who will?’ came the voice of Danilo, silent until then. His voice was gentle and deliberate. ‘’Tis Moscow sure enough, boys,’ he said. ‘There she be, our mother, the white . . .’ his voice faltered and he broke down in choking sobs, sounding like the old man he was. And this seemed to be all that was needed for the others to take in the full meaning of the glow they were watching. All that could be heard were people sighing and saying prayers, and the old valet choking and sobbing.
CHAPTER 31
The valet went back in and told the count Moscow was on fire. The count put on his dressing-gown and came out to have a look. Sonya, who was still dressed, came out with him and so did Madame Schoss. Natasha and the countess were left alone indoors. (Petya was no longer with the family, having gone on ahead to join his regiment on the march to Troitsa.)
The countess burst into tears when she heard that Moscow was in flames. Natasha’s lively eyes had settled as she sat, pale-faced, on the same bench under the icons that she had gone straight to when they had arrived, and she ignored what her father was saying. She was listening to the never-ending moan coming from the adjutant, which could be heard three huts away.
