War And Peace: Book 11 - CHAPTER XII

作者: Leo Tolstoy

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Author: Leo Tolstoy

THE ROSTOVS remained in Moscow till the 1st of September, the day before the

enemy entered the city.

After Petya had joined Obolensky's regiment of Cossacks and had gone away to

Byely Tserkov, where the regiment was being enrolled, the countess fell into a

panic of terror. The idea that both her sons were at the war, that they had both

escaped from under her wing, that any day either of them—and possibly even both

at once, like the three sons of a lady of her acquaintance—might be killed,

seemed for the first time that summer to strike her imagination with cruel

vividness. She tried to get Nikolay back, wanted to go herself after Petya, or

to obtain some post for him in Petersburg; but all these seemed equally

impossible. Petya could not be brought back except by the return of his

regiment, or through being transferred to another regiment on active service.

Nikolay was somewhere at the front, and nothing had been heard from him since

the letter in which he had given a detailed account of his meeting with Princess

Marya. The countess could not sleep at nights, and when she did sleep, she

dreamed that her sons had been killed. After much talking the matter over, and

many consultations of friends, the count at last hit on a means for soothing the

countess. He got Petya transferred from Obolensky's regiment to Bezuhov's, which

was in formation near Moscow. Though, even so, Petya remained in the army, by

this exchange the countess had the consolation of seeing one son at least again

under her wing; and she hoped to manage not to let her Petya escape her again,

but to succeed in getting him always appointed to places where there would be no

risk of his being in battle. While Nikolay had been the only one in danger, the

countess had fancied (and had suffered some pricks of conscience on the subject)

that she loved her elder son better than the other children. But now that her

younger boy, the scapegrace Petya, always idle at his lessons, always in

mischief, and teasing every one, her little Petya, with his snub-nose, his merry

black eyes, his fresh colour, and the soft down just showing on his cheeks, had

slipped away into the company of those big, dreadful, cruel men, who were

fighting away somewhere about something, and finding a sort of pleasure in

it—now it seemed to the mother that she loved him more, far more, than all the

rest. The nearer the time came for the return of her longed-for Petya to Moscow,

the greater was the uneasiness of the countess. She positively thought she would

never live to see such happiness. Not only Sonya's presence, even her favourite

Natasha's, even her husband's company, irritated the countess. “What do I want

with them, I want no one but Petya!” she thought. One day towards the end of

August, the Rostovs received a second letter from Nikolay. He wrote from the

province of Voronezh, where he had been sent to procure remounts. This letter

did not soothe the countess. Knowing that one son was out of danger, she seemed

to feel even greater alarm on Petya's account.

Although by the 20th of August almost all the Rostovs' acquaintances had left

Moscow; although everybody was trying to persuade the countess to get away as

quickly as possible, she would not hear of leaving till her treasure, her

idolised Petya, had come back. On the 28th of August Petya arrived. The morbidly

passionate tenderness with which his mother received him was by no means

gratifying to the sixteen-year-old officer. Though his mother concealed her

intention of never letting him escape from under her wing again, Petya divined

her plans, and instinctively afraid of his mother's making him too soft, of her

“making a ninny” of him (as he expressed it in his own mind), he treated her

rather coolly, avoided being with her, and during his stay in Moscow devoted

himself exclusively to Natasha, for whom he had always had the warmest brotherly

affection, almost approaching adoration.

The count, with his characteristic carelessness, had by the 28th made no

preparations for leaving, and the waggons that were to come from their Moscow

and Ryazan estate to remove all their property out of the house only arrived on

the 30th.

From the 28th to the 31st, Moscow was all bustle and movement. Every day

thousands of wounded from the field of Borodino were brought in at the

Dorogomilov gate and conveyed across Moscow, and thousands of vehicles, full of

residents and their belongings, were driving out at the gates on the opposite

side of the city. In spite of Rastoptchin's placards—either arising

independently of them, or perhaps in consequence of them—the strangest and most

contradictory rumours were circulating about the town. Some said that every one

was forbidden to leave the city; others asserted that all the holy pictures had

been taken from the churches, and every one was to be driven out of Moscow by

force. Some said there had been another battle after Borodino, in which the

French had been utterly defeated; others declared that the whole Russian army

had been annihilated. Some talked of the Moscow militia, which was to advance,

preceded by priests, to Three Hills; others whispered that Father Augustin had

been forbidden to leave, that traitors had been caught, that the peasants were

in revolt, and were plundering those who left the town, and so on. But all this

was only talk: in reality even though the council at Fili, at which it was

decided to abandon Moscow, had not yet taken place, all—those who were leaving

and those who were staying—felt that Moscow would be surrendered, though they

did not say so freely, and felt that they must make all haste to escape, and to

save their property. There was a feeling that there must come a general crash

and change, yet till the 1st of September everything went on unchanged. Like a

criminal being led to the gallows, who knows in a minute he must die, and yet

stares about, and puts straight the cap awry on his head, Moscow instinctively

went on with the daily routine of life, though aware that the hour of ruin was

approaching, when all the customary conditions of life would be at an end.

During the three days preceding the occupation of Moscow, the whole Rostov

family was busily engaged in various practical ways. The head of the family,

Count Ilya Andreitch, was continually driving about the town, picking up all the

rumours that were in circulation, and while at home, gave superficial and hasty

directions for the preparations for departure.

The countess superintended the sorting out of things to be packed; she was

out of humour with every one, and was in continual pursuit of Petya, who was as

continually escaping from her, and exciting her jealousy by spending all his

time with Natasha. Sonya was the only person who really undertook the practical

business of getting things packed. But Sonya had been particularly silent and

melancholy of late. She had been present when Nikolay's letter mentioning

Princess Marya had elicited the most delighted deductions from the countess, who

saw in Nikolay's meeting with Princess Marya the direct intervention of

Providence.

“I was never really happy,” said the countess, “when Bolkonsky was engaged to

Natasha, but I had always longed for Nikolay to marry the princess, and I have

always had a presentiment about it. And what a good thing it would be!”

Sonya felt that this was true; that the only possibility of retrieving the

Rostovs' position was by Nikolay's marriage to an heiress, and that the princess

would be an excellent match for him. But this reflection was very bitter for

her. In spite, or perhaps in consequence, of her sadness, she undertook the

difficult task of seeing after the sorting and packing of the household goods,

and for whole days together she was busily employed. The count and countess

referred to her when they had any orders to give. Petya and Natasha, on the

contrary, did nothing to help their parents, but were generally in every one's

way, and were only a hindrance. And all day long the house resounded with their

flying footsteps and shouts and shrieks of causeless mirth. They laughed and

were gay, not in the least because there was reason for laughter. But they were

gay and glad at heart, and so everything that happened was reason enough for

gaiety and laughter in them. Petya was in high spirits because he had left home

a boy, and come back (so every one told him) a fine young man, because he was at

home, because he had left Byely Tserkov, where there seemed no hope of being

soon on active service, and come to Moscow where there would be fighting in a

few days, and above all, because Natasha, whose lead he always followed, was in

high spirits. Natasha was gay, because she had too long been sad, and now

nothing reminded her of the cause of her sadness, and she was quite strong

again. She was gay too, because she needed some one to adore her (the adoration

of others was like the grease on the wheels, without which her mechanism never

worked quite smoothly), and Petya did adore her. And above all, they were both

gay, because there was war at the very gates of Moscow, because there would be

fighting at the barriers, because arms were being given out, and everybody was

rushing about, and altogether something extraordinary was happening, which is

always inspiriting, especially for the young.

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