War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy [561]
“Ah, yes, yes yes!” the count said quickly. “I’ll be very glad to. Vassilyich, arrange it so that one or two carts are cleared there…whatever…whatever’s necessary…” the count said, ordering something in some sort of indefinite terms. But at that same instant the ardent expression of gratitude from the officer confirmed what he had ordered. The count looked around: in the courtyard, in the gateway, in the windows of the wing, wounded men and orderlies could be seen. They were all looking at the count and moving towards the porch.
“If you please, Your Excellency, come to the gallery: what are your instructions concerning the paintings?” said the butler. And the count went into the house with him, repeating his order about not refusing the wounded who asked to ride along.
“Well, why not, you can take something out,” he added in a soft, secretive voice, as if fearing that someone might overhear him.
At nine o’clock the countess woke up, and Matryona Timofeevna, her former maid, who carried out the functions of a police chief with the countess, came to report to her former young lady that Marya Karlovna was very offended and that the young ladies’ summer dresses could not be left behind. On the countess’s inquiries as to why Mme Schoss was offended, it was discovered that her trunk had been taken off the cart, and all the carts were being untied, the chattels taken out, and wounded men put in, whom the count, in his simplicity, had ordered to be taken along. The countess ordered her husband sent for.
“What is it, my friend, I hear things are being unloaded again?”
“You know, ma chère, here is what I wanted to tell you…ma chère little countess…an officer came to me, they ask to be given several carts for the wounded. These things all come and go; but think how it is for them to stay!…Really, there are officers here in our courtyard, we invited them in ourselves…You know, I think, really, ma chère, well, ma chère, let’s take them…What’s the hurry?…” The count said this timidly, as he always spoke when it had to do with money. The countess was accustomed to this tone, which always preceded something ruinous for their children, like some sort of building of a gallery or conservatory, the organizing of a home theater or musical performances—and being accustomed to it, she considered it her duty always to fight against whatever was expressed in that timid tone.
She assumed her submissively tearful air and said to her husband:
“Listen, Count, you’ve brought it to the point that we’re getting nothing for the house, and now you want to destroy all our—our children’s property. You say yourself there’s a hundred thousand roubles’ worth of things in the house. I don’t consent, my friend, I don’t consent. As you wish! But it’s for the government to take care of the wounded. They know it. Look: across the street, the Lopukhins cleared everything out two days ago. That’s how people do it. We’re the only fools. If you don’t pity me, pity the children.”
The count waved his hands and, saying nothing, left the room.
“Papa! What’s this about?” said Natasha, who had followed him into her mother’s room.
“Nothing! What business is it of yours!” the count said angrily.
“No, I heard,” said Natasha. “Why doesn’t mama want it?”
“What business is it of yours?” cried the count. Natasha went to the window and fell to thinking.
“Papa, Berg has come to see us,” she said, looking out the window.
XVI
Berg, the Rostovs’ son-in-law, was already a colonel with a Vladimir and an Anna on the neck11 and occupied the same quiet and agreeable post of assistant to the chief of staff, assistant to the first section chief of staff of the second corps.
On the first of September, he arrived in Moscow from the army.
He had nothing to do in Moscow; but he had noticed that everybody in the army asked to go to Moscow and had something to do there. He also considered it necessary to ask for leave on household and family business.
Berg, in his