War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy [562]
From the front hall Berg ran with a gliding, impatient step into the drawing room and embraced the count, kissed Natasha’s and Sonya’s hands, and hastened to ask after mama’s health.
“Who talks about health now? Well, go on, tell us,” said the count, “what’s with the troops? Are they retreating or will there be a battle?”
“Only the pre-eternal God can decide the fate of the fatherland, papa,” said Berg. “The army is burning with the spirit of heroism, and now the leaders, so to speak, have gathered in council. No one knows what will happen. But I’ll tell you in general, papa, that such a heroic spirit, the truly ancient courage of the Russian army, which they—it,” he corrected himself, “showed or displayed in that battle of the twenty-sixth—no words can worthily describe…I’ll tell you, papa” (he beat his breast the way a certain general, talking about it in his presence, had beaten his breast, though a little late, because he should have beaten his breast at the words “Russian army”), “I’ll tell you openly that we superiors not only did not have to urge the soldiers on or anything like that, but we could hardly restrain those, those…yes, those courageous and ancient exploits,” he said in a rapid patter. “General Barclay de Tolly risked his life everywhere at the head of his troops, I can tell you. Our corps was stationed on the side of a hill. Can you imagine it!” And here Berg told everything he could remember from various stories he had heard since that time. Natasha, not taking her eyes away, which embarrassed Berg, looked at him as if seeking the answer to some question in his face.
“In general, such heroism as the Russian troops displayed is impossible to imagine and praise worthily!” said Berg, glancing at Natasha and smiling at her, as if trying to placate her, in response to her stubborn gaze…“‘Russia is not in Moscow, she is in the hearts of her sons!’ Right, papa?” said Berg.
Just then the countess came in from the sitting room, with a weary and displeased air. Berg hastily jumped up, kissed the countess’s hand, asked after her health, and, expressing his sympathy with a wagging of the head, stood beside her.
“Yes, mama, I tell you truly, these are hard and sad times for any Russian. But why worry so? You still have time to leave…”
“I don’t understand what the servants are doing,” said the countess, turning to her husband. “I’ve just been told that nothing is ready. Somebody has to be in charge. This is when I miss Mitenka. There’ll be no end to it!”
The count was about to say something, but evidently restrained himself. He got up from his chair and went to the door.
Berg took out his handkerchief just then, as if to blow his nose, and, looking at the knot, fell to thinking, shaking his head sadly and significantly.
“I have a big favor to ask of you, papa,” he said.
“Hm?…” said the count, stopping.
“I was just driving past Yusupov’s house,” Berg said, laughing. “The steward, an acquaintance of mine, ran out and asked if I’d like to buy anything. I went in, out of curiosity, you know, and there was this little chiffonier and a dressing table. You know how Verushka wanted one and how we argued over it.” (Berg involuntarily passed into a tone of joy at his comfortable life, when he began talking about the little chiffonier and the dressing table.) “And it’s so lovely! It pulls out, and there’s an English secret compartment, you know? And Verushka has wanted one for a long time. I’d like so much to give her a surprise. I saw so many of those muzhiks in your courtyard. Please let me have one, I’ll pay him well, and…”
The count winced and began clearing his throat.
“Ask the countess, I’m not in charge.”
“If it’s any trouble, please don’t bother,” said Berg. “I just wanted it so much for Verushka.”
“Ah, go to the devil, all of you, to the