‘Why, are you off too? . . . Where are you fellows off to?’ ... he touted to three infantry soldiers, who ran by him into the bazaar with- ut guns, holding up the skirts of their overcoats. ‘Stop, rascals!’
‘Yes, you see, how are you going to get hold of them?’ answered another fficer. ‘There’s no getting them together; we must push on so that the list may not be gone, that’s the only thing to do!’
‘How’s one to push on? There they have been standing, with a block n the bridge, and they are not moving. Shouldn’t a guard be set to pre- ent the rest running off.’
‘Why, come along! Drive them out,’ shouted the senior officer.
The officer in the scarf dismounted, called up a drummer, and went ith him into the arcade. Several soldiers in a group together made a jsh away. A shopkeeper, with red bruises on his cheeks about his nose, ith an expression on his sleek face of quiet persistence in the pursuit f gain, came hurriedly and briskly up to the officer gesticulating.
‘Your honour,’ said he, ‘graciously protect us. We are not close-fisted -any trifle now ... we shall be delighted! Pray, your honour, walk 1, I’ll bring out cloth in a moment—a couple of pieces even for a gentle- lan—we shall be delighted! For we feel how it is, but this is simple ibbery! Pray, your honour! a guard or something should be set, to let fe at least shut up . . .’
Several shopkeepers crowded round the officer.
‘Eh! it’s no use clacking,’ said one of them, a thin man, with a stern ice; ‘when one’s head’s off, one doesn’t weep over one’s hair. Let all ike what they please! ’ And with a vigorous sweep of his arm he turned way from the officer.
‘It’s all very well for you to talk, Ivan Sidpritch,’ the first shopkeeper egan angrily. ‘If yon please, your honour.’
‘What’s the use of talking!’ shouted the thin man; ‘in my three shops ere I have one hundred thousand worth of goods. How’s one to guard lem when the army is gone? Ah, fellows, God’s will is not in men’s ands!’
‘If you please, your honour,’ said the first shopkeeper, bowing.
The officer stood in uncertainty, and his face betrayed indecision. ‘Why, hat business is it of mine!’ he cried suddenly, and he strode on rapidly ong the arcade. In one open shop he heard blows and high words, id just as the officer was going into it, a man in a grey coat, with a shaven ead, was thrust violently out of the door.
This man doubled himself up and bounded past the shopkeepers and le officer. The officer pounced on the soldiers who w r ere in the shop, ut meanwhile fearful screams, coming from an immense crowd, were iard near the Moskvoryetsky bridge, and the officer ran out into the ' juare.
‘What is it? What is it?’ he asked, but his comrade had already gal- ped off in the direction of the screams. The officer mounted his horse
and followed him. As he drew near the bridge, he saw two cannons tha had been taken off their carriages, the infantry marching over the bridge a few broken-down carts, and some soldiers with frightened, and somi with laughing, faces. Near the cannons stood a waggon with a pair o: horses harnessed to it. Behind the wheels huddled four greyhounds in col lars. A mountain of goods was piled up in the waggon, and on the very top beside a child's chair turned legs uppermost, sat a woman, who wa: uttering shrill and despairing shrieks. The officer was told by his comrade; that the screams of the crowd and the woman’s shrieks were due to the fact that General Yermolov had come riding down on the crowd, anc learning that the soldiers were straying away in the shops, and crowd; of the townspeople were blocking the bridge, had commanded them tc take the cannons out of their carriages, and to make as though they woulc fire them at the bridge. The crowd had made a rush; upsetting waggons trampling one another, and screaming desperately, the bridge had beer cleared, and the troops had moved on.
XXII
The town itself meanwhile was deserted. There was scarcely a creature in the streets. The gates and the shops were all closed; here and there near pot-houses could be heard solitary shouts or drunken singing. Nc one was driving in the streets, and footsteps were rarely heard. Povarskj Street was perfectly still and deserted. In the immense courtyard of the Rostovs’ house a few wisps of straw were lying about, litter out of the waggons that had gone away, and not a man was to be seen. In the Rostovs’ 1 house—abandoned with all its wealth—there were two person; in the great drawing-room. These were the porter, Ignat, and the little page, Mishka, the grandson of Vassilitch, who had remained in Moscovt with his grandfather. Mishka had opened the clavichord, and was strumming with one finger. The porter, with his arms akimbo and a gleefu smile on his face, was standing before the great looking-glass.
‘That’s fine, eh, Uncle Ignat?’ said the boy, beginning to bang witl both hands at once on the keys.
‘Ay, ay!’ answered Ignat, admiring the broadening grin on his visagi in the glass.
