 Warrant Peace, Book 11, Chapter 14, Recording for DipliVox.org by Ava Harnick Madame Chos, who had been out to visit her daughter, increased the countess's fear still more by telling her what she had seen at the Spirit Dealers in Mia's Nitski Street. In returning by that street, she had been unable to pass because of a drunken crowd rioting in front of the shop. She had taken a cab and driven home by a side street, and the cab man had told her that the people were breaking open the barrels at the drink store, having received orders to do so. After dinner, the whole rust of household set to work with enthusiastic haste, packing their belongings and preparing for their departure. The old count, suddenly setting to work, kept passing from the yard to the house and back again, shouting confused instructions to the hurrying people and flurrying them still more. Petra directed things in the yard. Sonja, owing to the count's contradictory orders, lost her head and did not know what to do. The servants ran noisily about the house and yard, shouting and disputing. Natasha, with the ardour characteristic of all she did, suddenly set to work too. At first, her intervention in the business of packing was received skeptically. She expected some prank from her and did not wish to obey her. But she resolutely and passionately demanded obedience, grew angry and nearly cried because they did not heed her, and at last succeeded in making them believe her. Her first exploit, which cost her immense effort and established her authority, was the packing of the carpets. The count had valuable goblin tapestries and Persian carpets in the house. When Natasha set to work, two cases were standing open in the ballroom. One almost full up with crockery, the other with carpets. There was also much china standing on the tables and still more was being brought in from the storeroom. The third case was needed and servants had gone to fetch it. Sonja, wait a bit, we'll pack everything into these, said Natasha. You can't miss, we have tried to, said the Butler's assistant. No, wait a minute, please. And Natasha began rapidly taking out of the case dishes and plates wrapped in paper. The dishes must go in here among the carpets, said she. Why, it is a mercy if we can get the carpets alone into three cases, said the Butler's assistant. Oh, wait, please. And Natasha began rapidly and deftly sorting out the sinks. These aren't needed, said she, putting aside some plates of kiaver. These, yes, these must go among the carpets, she said, referring to the Saxony china dishes. Don't Natasha, leave it alone, we'll get it all packed, urged Sonja reproachfully. What a young lady she is, remarked the major domo. But Natasha would not give in. She turned everything out and began quickly repacking, deciding that the inferior Russian carpets and unnecessary crockery should not be taken at all. When everything had been taken out of the cases, they recommended packing, and it turned out that when the cheapest sinks not worth taking had nearly all been rejected, the valuable ones really did all go into the two cases. Only the lid of the case containing the carpets would not shut down. A few more sinks might have been taken out, but Natasha insisted on having her own way. She packed, repacked, pressed, made the Butler's assistant and Petja, whom she had drawn into the business of packing, pressed on the lid, and made desperate efforts herself. That's enough, Natasha, said Sonja. I see you were right, but just take out the top one. I won't, cried Natasha. With one hand holding back the hair that hung over her perspiring face, while with the other she pressed down the carpets. Now press Petja, press Vasilych, press hard, she cried. The carpets yielded, and the lid closed. Natasha clapping her hands screamed with delight, and tears fell from her eyes. But this only lasted a moment. She at once set to work afresh, and they now trusted her completely. The count was not angry, even when they told him that Natasha had countermanded an order of his, and the servants now came to her to ask whether a cart was sufficiently loaded and whether it might be corded up. Thanks to Natasha's directions, the work now went on expeditiously, unnecessary things were left, and the most valuable packed as compactly as possible. But hard as they all worked, till quite late that night, they could not get everything packed. The countess had fallen asleep, and the count, having put off their departure till next morning, went to bed. Sonja and Natasha slept in the sitting room without undressing. That night another wounded man was driven down the Povarskaya, and Mavrakuzminichnya, who was standing at the gate, had him brought into the Rostov's yard. Mavrakuzminichnya concluded that he was a very important man. He was being conveyed in a kalash with a raised hood, and was quite covered by an apron. On the box beside the driver set a venerable old attendant. A doctor and two soldiers followed the carriage in a cart. Please come in here. The masters are going away, and the whole house will be empty, said the old woman to the old attendant. Well, perhaps, said he with a sigh. We don't expect to get him home alive. We have a house of our own in Moscow, but it is a long way from here, and there's nobody living in it. Do us the honor to come in. There is plenty of everything in the master's house. Come in, said Mavrakuzminichnya. Is he very ill? He asked. The attendant made a hopeless gesture. We don't expect to get him home. We must ask the doctor. And the old servant got down from the box and went up to the cart. All right, said the doctor. The old servant returned to the kalash, looked into it, shook his head disconsolately, told the driver to turn into the yard and stop beside Mavrakuzminichnya. Oh Lord Jesus Christ, she murmured. She invited them to take the wounded man into the house. The master's won't object, she said. But they had to avoid carrying the man upstairs, and so they took him into the wing and put him in the room that had been Madame Shorses. This wounded man was Prince Andrew Borkonski. End of chapter 14, recording by Eva Harnik. War and Peace, book 11, chapter 15, recording for LibriVox.org by Eva Harnik. Moscow's last day had come. It was a clear bright autumn day, a Sunday. The church bells everywhere were ringing for service, just as usual on Sundays. Nobody seemed yet to realize what awaited the city. Only two sinks indicated the social condition of Moscow, the rabble, that is the poor people, and the price of commodities. An enormous crowd of factory hands, house serves, and peasants, with whom some official seminaries and gentry were mingled, had gone early that morning to the Three Hills. Having waited there for Rostopchin, who did not turn up, they became convinced that Moscow would be surrendered, and then dispersed all about the town to the public houses and cookshops. Prices, too, that day, indicated the state of affairs. The price of weapons, of gold, of carts and horses kept rising. But the value of paper money and city articles kept falling, so that by midday there were instances of carters removing valuable goods, such as clothes and receiving in payment a half of what they carted, while peasant horses were fetching five hundred rubles each, and furniture, mirrors, and bronzes were being given away for nothing. In the Rostopch state old-fashioned house, the dissolution of former conditions of life was but little noticeable. As to the serves, the only indication was that three out of their huge retinue disappeared during the night, but nothing was stolen, and as to the value of their possessions, the thirty peasant carts that had come in from their estates, and which many people envied, proved to be extremely valuable, and they were offered enormous sums of money for them. Not only were huge sums offered for the horses and carts, but on the previous evening and early in the morning of the first of September, orderly sent servants sent by wounded officers came to the Rostovs, and wounded men dragged themselves there from the Rostovs and from neighboring houses where they were accommodated, and treating the servants to try to get them a lift out of Moscow. The major domo to whom these entreaties were addressed, though he was sorry for the wounded, resolutely refused, saying that he dared not even mention the matter to the count. Despite these wounded men as one might, it was evident that if they were given one cart, there would be no reason to refuse another, or all the carts and one's own carriages as well. Thirty carts could not save all the wounded, and in the general catastrophe one could not disregard oneself and one's own family. So sunk the major domo on his master's behalf. On waking up that morning, Kant Ilya Rostov left his bedroom softly, so as not to wake the countess, who had fallen asleep only toward morning, and came out to the porch in his lilac dressing-gown. From the yard stood the carts ready-corded. The carriages were at the front porch. The major domo stood at the porch, talking to an elderly orderly and a pale young officer with a bandaged arm. On seeing the count, the major domo made a significant and stern gesture to them both to go away. Well, Vasiliych, is everything ready, asked the count, and stroking his bald head, he looked good-naturedly at the officer and the orderly and nodded to them. He liked to see new faces. We can harness at once your excellency. Well, that is right, as soon as the countess wakes, we'll be off God-willing. What is it, gentlemen, he added, turning to the officer. Are you staying in my house? The officer came nearer and suddenly his face flushed crimson. Kant, be so good as to allow me, for God's sake, to get into some corner of one of your carts. I have nothing here with me. I shall be all right on a loaded cart. Before the officer had finished speaking, the orderly made the same request on behalf of his master. Oh, yes, yes, yes, said the count hastily. I shall be very pleased. Very pleased. Vasiliych, you see to it. Just unload one or two carts. Well, what of it? Do what is necessary, said the count muttering some indefinite order. But at the same moment an expression of warm gratitude on the officer's face had already sealed the order. The count looked around him. In the yard at the gates, at the window of the wings, wounded officers and their orderlies were to be seen. They were all looking at the count and moving toward the porch. Please step into the gallery, your Excellency, said the major domo. What are your orders about the pictures? The count went into the house with him, repeating his order not to refuse the wounded who asked for a lift. Well, never mind. Some of the things can be unloaded. He added in a soft, confidential voice, as though afraid of being overheard. At nine o'clock the countess woke up and Matrina Timofivna, who had been her lady's maid before her marriage, and now performed a sort of chief random duty for her, came to say that Madame Chos was much offended and the young lady's summer dresses could not be left behind. On inquiry the countess learned that Madame Chos was offended because her trunk had been taken down from its cart, and all the loads were being uncorded and the luggage taken out of the carts to make room for a wounded man whom the count, in the simplicity of his heart, had ordered that they should take wisdom. The countess sent for her husband. What is this, my dear? I hear that the luggage is being unloaded. You know, love, I wanted to tell you. Countess there, an officer came to me to ask for a few carts for the wounded. After all, ours are sinks that can be bought, but sink, what being left behind means to them. Really now, in our own yard, we ask them in our sons, and there are officers among them. You know, I think, my dear, let them be taken. Where is the hurry? The count spoke timidly, as he always did when talking of money matters. The countess was accustomed to this stone as a precursor of news of something detrimental to the children's interests, such as the building of a new gallery or conservatory, the inauguration of a private theater or an orchestra. She was accustomed always to oppose anything announced in that timid tone and considered it her duty to do so. She assumed her dull, fully submissive manner and said to her husband, listen to me, count, you have managed matters so that we are getting nothing for the house, and now you wish to throw away all our, all the children's property. You said yourself that we have a hundred thousand rubles worth of sinks in the house. I don't consent, my dear. I don't. Do as you please. It is the government's business to look after the wounded. They know that. Look at the Lopukins opposite. They cleared out everything two days ago. That is what other people do. It is only we who are such fools. If you have no pity on me, have some for the children. Flourishing his arms in despair, the Count left the room without replying. Papa, what are you doing that for? Asked Natasha, who had followed him into her mother's room. Nothing. What business is it of yours? muttered the Count angrily. But I heard, said Natasha. Why does Mama object? What business is it of yours? cried the Count. Natasha stepped up to the window and pondered. Papa, here is Bear coming to see us. Said she, looking out of the window. End of chapter 15, recording by Eva Harnick, Pontevedra, Florida. War and Peace. Book 11, chapter 16, recording for LibriVox.org, by Eva Harnick. Berg, the Rust of Son-in-law, was already Colonel, wearing the orders of Vladimir and Anna, and he still filled the quiet and agreeable post of assistant to the head of the staff of the assistant commander of the First Division of the Second Army. On the 1st of September, he had come to Moscow from the Army. He had nothing to do in Moscow. But he had noticed that everyone in the Army was asking for leave to visit Moscow and had something to do there. So he considered it necessary to ask for leave of absence for family and domestic reasons. Berg drove up to his father-in-law's house in his proust little trap with a pair of sleek rones exactly like those of a certain prince. He looked attentively at the carts in the yard and while going up to the porch took out a clean pocket handkerchief and tied a knot in it. From the enter room, Berg ran with smooth, though impatient steps into the drawing room where he embraced a count, kissed the hands of Natasha Sonia and hastened to inquire after mama's house. House at a time like this said the count. Come, tell us the news. Is the army retreating or will there be another battle? God Almighty alone can decide the fate of our fatherland, papa, said Berg. The army is burning with the spirit of heroism and the leaders, so to say, have now assembled in council. No one knows what is coming. But in general, I can tell you, papa, that such a heroic spirit, the truly antique valor of the Russian army, which day, which it, he corrected himself, has shown or displayed in the Battle of the 26, there are no words to do with justice. I tell you, papa, he smote himself on the breast as a general he had heard speaking had done. But Berg did it a trifle late, for he should have stuck his breast at the words Russian army. I tell you, frankly, that we, the commanders, far from having to urge the man on, or anything of that kind, could hardly restrain those, those, yes, those exploits of antique valor, he went on rapidly. General Barclay de Tolle risked his life everywhere at the head of the troops. I can assure you, our corpse was stationed on a hillside, you can imagine. And Berg related all that he remembered of the various tales he had heard those days. Natasha watched him with an intent gaze that confused him, as if she were trying to find in his face the answer to some question. All together, such heroism as was displayed by the Russian warriors, cannot be imagined or adequately praised, said Berg, glancing round at Natasha, as if anxious to conciliate her, replying to her intent look with a smile. Russia is not in Moscow. She lives in the hearts of her sons. Isn't it so, papa, said he. Just then the countess came in from the sitting room with a weary and dissatisfied expression. Berg hurriedly jumped up, kissed her hand, asked about her house, and swaying his head from side to side to express sympathy, remained standing beside her. Yes, mama, I tell you sincerely that these are hard and sad times for every Russian. But why are you so anxious? You have still time to get away. I can't think what the servants are about, said the countess, turning to her husband. I have just been told that nothing is ready yet. Somebody, after all, must see two things. One misses Mchenka at such times. There won't be any 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. At that moment Berg drew out his handkerchief as if to blow his nose, and seeing the knot in it, pondered, shaking his head sadly and significantly. And I have a great favor to ask of you, papa, said he. Said the countess, stop. I was driving past you Supov's house just now, said Berg with a laugh. When the steward, a man I know, ran out and asked me whether I wouldn't buy something. I went in out of curiosity, you know, and there is a small chiffonet and a dressing table. You know how dear Vera wanted the chiffonet like that and how we had a dispute about it. At the mention of the chiffonet and dressing table, Berg involuntarily changed his tone to one of pleasure at his admirable domestic arrangements. And it is such a beauty. It pulls out and has a secret English drawer, you know. And dear Vera has long wanted one. I wish to give her a surprise, you see. I saw so many of those peasant carts in your yard. Please let me have one. I will pay the man well and... The count frowned and coughed. Asked the countess, I don't give orders. If it is inconvenient, please don't, said Berg. Only I so wanted it for dear Vera's sake. Oh, go to the devil, all of you. To the devil, the devil, the devil, cried the old count. My head is in a whirl. And he left the room. The countess began to cry. Yes, mama, yes, these are very hard times, said Berg. Natasha left the room with her father and as if finding it difficult to reach some decision, first followed him and then ran downstairs. Petja was in the porch, engaged in giving out weapons to the servants who were to leave Moscow. The loaded carts were still standing in the yard. Two of them had been encoded and the wounded officer was climbing into one of them, helped by an orderly. Do you know what it is about? Petja asked Natasha. She understood that he meant what were their parents squaddling about. She did not answer. It is because papa wanted to give up all the carts to the wounded, said Petja. Vasilych told me, I consider, I consider Natasha suddenly almost shouted, turning her angry face to Petja. I consider it so horrid, so abominable, so I don't know what. Are we despicable Germans? Her throat quivered with convulsive sobs and afraid of weakening and letting the force of her anger run to waste. She turned and rushed headlong up the stairs. Berg was sitting beside the countess, consoling her with the respectful attention of a relative. The count, pipe in hand, was pacing up and down the room when Natasha, her face distorted by anger, burst in like a tempest and approached her mother with rapid steps. It is horrid, it is abominable, she screamed. You can't possibly have ordered it. Berg and the countess looked at her perplexed and frightened. The count stood still at the window and listened. Mama, it is impossible. See what is going on in the yard, she cried. They will be left. What's the matter with you? Who are they? What do you want? Why the wounded? It is impossible, Mama. It is monstrous. No, Mama darling, is not the same. Please forgive me, darling, Mama. What does it matter what we take away? Only look what is going on in the yard. Mama, it is impossible. The count stood by the window and listened without turning round. Suddenly he sniffed and put his face closer to the window. The countess glanced at her daughter, saw her face full of shame for her mother, saw her agitation and understood why her husband did not turn to look at her now and she glanced round quite disconcerted. Oh, do as you like. Am I hindering anyone? She said, not surrendering at once. Mama darling, forgive me. But the countess pushed her daughter away and went up to her husband. My dear, you order what is right. You know I don't understand about it. Said she, dropping her eyes shame-facedly. The eggs, the eggs are teaching the hen, muttered the count through tears of joy and he embraced his wife who was glad to hide her look of shame on his breast. Papa, mama, may I see to it? May I ask Natasha? We will still take all the most necessary things. The count nodded affirmatively and Natasha at the rapid pace at which she used to run when playing at tag, ran through the ballroom to the enter room and downstairs into the yard. The servants gathered round Natasha but could not believe the strange order she brought them until the count himself in his wife's name confirmed the order to give up all the cards to the wounded and take the trunks to the storerooms. When they understood that order, the servants set to work at this new task with pleasure and zeal. It no longer seemed strange to them, but on the contrary, it seemed the only thing that could be done, just as a quarter of an hour before, it had not seemed strange to anyone that the wounded should be left behind and the goods carted away, but that had seemed the only thing to do. The whole household, as if to atone for not having done it sooner, set eagerly to work at the new task of placing the wounded in the carts. The wounded dragged themselves out of their rooms and stood with pale but happy faces round the carts. The news that carts were to be had spread to the neighboring houses from which wounded men began to come into the Rostov's yard. Many of the wounded asked them not to unload the carts, but only to let them sit on the top of the sinks, but the work of unloading one started could not be arrested. It seemed not to matter whether all or only half the sinks were left behind. Cases full of china, bronzes, pictures and mirrors that had been so carefully packed the night before now lay about the yard and still they went on searching for and finding possibilities of unloading this or that and letting the wounded have another and yet another cart. We can take four more men, said the steward. They can have my trap or else what is to become of them? Let them have my wardrobe cart, said the counters. Dunyasha can go with me in the carriage. They unloaded the wardrobe cart and sent it to take wounded men from a house two doors off. The whole household servants included was bright and animated. Natasha was in a state of rapturous excitement such as she had not known for a long time. What could we fasten this onto? Ask the servants trying to fix a trunk on the narrow footboard behind the carriage. We must keep at least one cart. What is in it? asked Natasha. The count's books. Leave it, Vasilych will put it away. It is not wanted. The fit home was full of people and there was a doubt as to where Count Peter could sit. On the box, you will sit on the box, won't you Petia? cried Natasha. Sonja too was busy all this time but the aim of her efforts was quite different from Natasha's. She was putting away the things that had to be left behind and making a list of them as the count has wished and she tried to get as much taken away with them as possible. End of chapter 16, recording by Eva Harnick, Pontavedra, Florida. War and Peace. Book 11, chapter 17, recording for LibriVox.org by Eva Harnick. Before two o'clock in the afternoon, the Rostov's four carriages packed full and with the horse's harness stood at the front door. One by one, the carts with the wounded had moved out of the yard. The kalesh in which Prince Andrew was being taken attracted Sonja's attention as it passed the front porch. With the help of her maid, she was arranging a seat for the countess in the huge high court that stood at the entrance. Whose kalesh is that? She inquired, leaning out of the carriage window. Why didn't you know, Miss? replied the maid. The wounded prince, he spent the night in our house and is going with us. But who is it? What is his name? It is our intended that was Prince Borkonsky himself. They say he's dying, replied the maid with a sigh. Sonja jumped out of the coach and ran to the countess. The countess tired out and already dressed in shawl and bonnet for her journey, was pacing up and down the drawing room, waiting for the household to assemble for the usual silent prayer with closed doors before starting. Natasha was not in the room. Mama said, Sonja, Prince Andrew is here, mortally wounded. He's going with us. The countess opened her eyes in dismay and seizing Sonja's arm glanced around. Natasha, she murmured. At that moment, this news had only one significance for both of them. They knew their Natasha and alarmed us to what would happen if she heard this news, stifled all sympathy for the man they both liked. Natasha does not know yet, but he's going with us, said Sonja. You say he's dying, Sonja nodded. The countess put her arms around Sonja and began to cry. The ways of God are past finding out, she sought, feeling that the almighty hand, hitherto unseen, was becoming manifest in all that was now taking place. Well, Mama, everything is ready. What's the matter, asked Natasha, as with animated face she ran into the room? Nothing, answered the countess. If everything is ready, let us start. And the countess bent over her reticule to hide her agitated face. Sonja embraced Natasha and kissed her. Natasha looked at her inquiringly. What is it? What has happened? Nothing. No. Is it something very bad for me? What is it, persisted Natasha with her quick intuition? Sonja sighed and made no reply. The count, Petja, Madame Chos, Mavrakus Minichna, and Vasilych came into the drawing room and having closed the doors, they all sat down and remained for some moments, silently seated, without looking at one another. The count was the first to rise and with a loud sigh crossed himself before the icon. All the others did the same. Then the count embraced Mavrakus Minichna and Vasilych, who were to remain in Moscow, and while they caught at his hand and kissed his shoulder, he petted their back slightly with some vaguely affectionate and comforting words. The countess went into the oratory and there Sonja found her on her knees before the icons that had been left here and there hanging on the wall. The most precious ones, with which some family tradition was connected, were being taken with them. In the porch and in the yard, the man whom Petja had armed with swords and daggers, with trousers tucked inside their high boots and with belts and girdles tightened, were taking leave of those remaining behind. As is always the case at a departure, much had been forgotten or put in the wrong place, and for a long time two men serve and stood one on each side of the open door and the carriage steps waiting to help the countess in, while maids rushed with cushions and bundles from the house to the carriages, the callus, the peyton, and back again. They always will forget everything, said the countess. Don't you know I can't sit like that? And Dunjaša with clenched teeth without replying, but with an aggrieved look on her face, he still he got in to the coach to rearrange the seat. Ah, those servants, said the countess, swaying his head. Effim, the old coachman, who was the only one the countess trusted to drive her, sat perched up high on the box and did not so much as glance around at what was going on behind him. From thirty years' experience he knew it would be some time yet before the order, be of in God's name, would be given him. And he knew that even when it was said, he would be stopped once or twice more while they sent back to fetch something that had been forgotten, and even after that, he would again be stopped and the countess herself would lean out of the window and beg him for the love of heaven to drive carefully down the hill. He knew all this, and therefore waited calmly for what would happen with more patience than the horses, especially the near one, the chestnut falcon, who was pawing the ground and chomping his bit. At last all were seated, the carriage steps were folded and pulled up, the door was shut, somebody was sent for a traveling case, and the countess leaned out and said what she had to say. Then Ephem deliberately doffed his head and began crossing himself. The postillian and all the other servants did the same. Off in God's name, said Ephem, putting on his head. Start. The postillian started the horses. The off-pawl horse tugged at his collar, the high springs creaked, and the body of the coach swayed. The footmen sprang onto the box of the moving coach, which jolted as it passed out of the yard onto the uneven roadway. The other vehicles jolted in their turn, and the procession of carriages moved up the street. In the carriages, the Kallish and the Pethon all crossed themselves as they passed the church opposite the house. Those who were to remain in Moscow walked on either side of the vehicles, seeing the travelers off. Rarely had Natasha experienced so joyful a feeling as now, sitting in the carriage beside the countess and gazing at the slowly receding walls of forsaken, agitated Moscow. Occasionally, she leaned out of the carriage window and looked back and then forward at the long train of wounded in front of them. Almost at the head of the line, she could see the resthood of Prince Andrew's Kallish. She did not know who was in it, but each time she looked at the procession, her eyes saw that Kallish. She knew it was right in front. In Kudrino, from the Nikitsky, Preznya, and Podnovinsk streets, came several other trains of vehicles similar to the Rostovs, and as they passed along the Sadovaya street, the carriages and carts formed two rows abreast. As they were going round the Sukarev Water Tower, Natasha, who was inquisitively and alertly scrutinizing the people driving or walking past, suddenly cried out in joyful surprise. Dear me, mama, Sonya, look, it is he. Who, who? Look, yes, on my word, it is Bezukov, said Natasha, putting her head out of the carriage and staring at a tall, stout man in a coachman's long coat, who from his manner of walking and moving was evidently a gentleman in disguise, and who was passing under the arch of the Sukarev Tower, accompanied by a small, shallow-faced, beardless old man in a freeze coat. Yes, it really is Bezukov in a coachman's coat with a queer-looking old boy. Really, said Natasha. Look, look. No, it isn't he. How can you talk such nonsense? Mama, screamed Natasha. I will stake my head. It is he. I assure you. Stop, stop. She cried to the coachman. But the coachman could not stop, for from the Meschansky Street came more carts and carriages, and the Rostovs were being shouted at to move on and not locked away. In fact, however, they were now much farther off than before. The Rostov also, Pierre, was someone extraordinarily like him in a coachman's coat, going down the street with his head bent, and a serious face, beside a small, beardless old man who looked like a footman. That old man noticed a face thrust out of a carriage window, gazing at them, and respectfully touching Pierre's elbow, said something to him and pointed to the carriage. Pierre, evidently engrossed in salt, could not at first understand him. At length, when he had understood and looked in the direction the old man indicated, he recognized Natasha, and following his first impulse, stepped instantly and rapidly toward the coach. But having taken a dozen steps, he seemed to remember something and stopped. Natasha's face, leaning out of the window, beamed with quizzical kindliness. Peter Kirilovich, come here. We have recognized you. This is wonderful, she cried, holding out her hand to him. What are you doing? Why are you like this? Pierre took her outstretched hand and kissed it awkwardly as he walked along beside her while the coach still moved on. What is the matter, Count? Asked the Countess in a surprised and commiserating tone. What? What? Why? Don't ask me, said Pierre, and looked round at Natasha, whose radiant, happy expression of which he was conscious without looking at her filled him with enchantment. Are you remaining in Moscow then? Pierre hesitated. In Moscow? He said in a questioning tone. Yes, in Moscow. Goodbye. Oh, if only I were a man, I would certainly stay with you. How splendid, said Natasha. Mama, if you will let me, I will stay. Pierre glanced absently at Natasha and was about to say something, but the Countess interrupted him. You were at the battle we heard? Yes, I was, Pierre answered. There will be another battle tomorrow. He began, but Natasha interrupted him. But what is the matter with you, Count? You are not like yourself. Oh, don't ask me. Don't ask me. I don't know myself. Tomorrow? But no, goodbye. Goodbye, he muttered. It is an awful time. And dropping behind the carriage, he stepped onto the pavement. Natasha continued to lean out of the window for a long time, beaming at him with her kindly, slightly quizzical, happy smile. End of chapter 17, recording by Eva Harnick, Ponte Vedra, Florida. War and Peace, book 11, chapter 18, read for LibriVox.org by Jeff. Chapter 18, for the last two days, ever since living home, Pierre had been living in the empty house of his deceased benefactor, Bethadeev. This is how it happened. When he woke up on the morning after his return to Moscow and his interview with Count Brazdafshin, he could not for some time make out where he was and what was expected of him. When he was informed that the Mount Ardors awaited him in his reception room, there was a Frenchman who had brought a letter from his wife, the Countess Helene. He felt suddenly overcome by that sense of confusion and hopelessness to which he was up to scum. He felt that everything was now at an end, and all was in confusion and crumbling to pieces, that nobody was right or wrong. The future held nothing, and there was no escape from this position. Smelling and naturally and murdering to himself, he first sat down on the sofa in an attitude of despair. Then rose, went to the door of the reception room and peeped through the crack, returned flourishing his arms and took up a book. His major domo came in a second time to say that the Frenchman who had brought the letter from the Countess was very anxious to see him, if only four minutes, and that someone from Bezadeev's widow had called to ask Pierre to take charge of her husband's book, as she herself was living for the country. Oh yes, in a minute, wait. Well no, no of course. Go and say I will come directly. Pierre replied to the major domo, but as soon as the man had left the room, Pierre took up his head which was lying on the table and went out of his study room by the other door. There was no one in the passage. He went along the whole length of this passage to the stairs and frowning and rubbing his forehead with both hands, went down as far as the first landing. The hall porter was standing at the front door. From the landing where Pierre stood, there was a second staircase leading to the back entrance. He went down the staircase and out into the yard. No one had seen him, but there was some carriages waiting, and as soon as Pierre stepped out of the gate, the coachman and the yard porter noticed him and raised their caps to him. When he felt that he was being looked at, he behaved like an ostrich, which hid his head in a bush and learned not to be seen. He hung his head and quickened his face when down the street. Of all the affairs waiting Pierre that day, the sorting of Joseph as a deep spook and the papers appeared to him the most necessary. He hired the first cab he met and told the driver to go to the Patriarch's Ponds where the widow bathed Steve's house was. Continually turning around to look at the rows of loaded cars that were making their way from outside out of Moscow and balancing his spoky body so as not to sleep out of the ramshackle or vehicle. Pierre, experiencing the joyful feeling of a boy escaping from school, began to talk to his driver. The man told him that the arms were being distributed today at the Kremlin and that tomorrow everyone would be sent out beyond the Three Hills Gates and a great battle would be fought there. Having reached the Patriarch's Ponds, Pierre found the bathed Steve's house where he had not been for a long time past. Went up to the gate, jello-zimmed that the shallow beardless doldemann Pierre had seen at the Tulsa five years before with Joseph as a deep came out in answer to his now. Owing to the present state of things, Sophia Danielavna has gone to the... Sophia Danielavna has gone to the Tozoki State with the children, your excellency. Sophia Danielavna has gone to the Tozoki State. Sophia Danielavna has gone to the Tozoki State with the children, your excellency. Sophia Danielavna has gone to the Tozoki State with the children, your excellency. I will come in all the same, I have to look through the books," said Pierre. Be so good as to step in, Mark Alexivich, the brother of my late master, may the kingdom of heaven be his, as remain here. But he is a weak state as you know, said the old servant. Pierre knew that Mark Alexivich with Joseph by the divs have insane brother and a hard jinker. Yes, yes, yes, yes, I know, let us go in, said Pierre and entered the house. A tall, bald-headed old man with a red nose wearing a dressing gown, wearing a dressing gown and with a, a tall, bald-headed old man with a red nose wearing a dressing gown and with glasses on his bare feet stood in the empty room. Unseen Pierre, he muttered something angrily and went away along the passage. He was a very clever man, but has now grown quite feeble as your honor sees. He was a very, he was a very clever man, but has now grown quite feeble as your honor sees, said Geraldine. So you step into the study, Pierre nodded, as it was sealed up, as it was sealed up, so it has remained. But Sophia, but Sophia, then you love not give, but Sophia, then you love not gave orders that if anyone should come from you, they were to have the books. Pierre went into the gloomy study, which he had entered with such trepidation in his benefactor's lifetime. In the room, dusty and untouched since the death of Joseph Bethesdaib was now even gloomier. Geraldine opened one of the shutters and left the room on tiptoe. Pierre went around the study, approached the capboard in which the manual scripts were kept, and took out what had once been one of the most important and the holy upholists of the order. This was the authentic Scourge acts with Bethesdaib's nose and exclamations. He sat down at the dusty writing table, and having laid the manual script before him, opened them out, closed them, and finally pushed them away, and resting his head on his hand sank into medication. Geraldine looked cautiously into the study several times, and so Pierre always sitting in the same attitude. More than two hours passed, and Geraldine took the liberty of making a slight noise at the door to track his attention, but Pierre did not hear him. Is the capman to be discharged, Your Honor? Oh yes, said Pierre, rousing himself and rising hurriedly. Look here, taking Geraldine by a button of his coat, and looking down at the old man with moist, shining, and exacted eyes. And Geraldine heard him pacing restlessly from one corner to another, and talking to himself, and he spent the night on a bed made up for him there. Geraldine, being a servant who in his time had seen many string things, except Pierre is taking up his residence in the house without surprise, and seemed to please to have someone to wait on. That same evening, without even asking himself what they were wanted for, he procured a coachman's coat and a cap for Pierre, and promised to get him the pistol next day. MacKerry Alexievich came twice that evening, shuffling along in his glasses as far as the door, and stopped, and looked ingratiately at Pierre. But as soon as Pierre turned toward him, he wrapped his dressing gown around him with a shimmy face and angry look, and hurried away. It was when Pierre, wearing the coachman's coat, which Geraldine had procured for him, and had disinfected by steam, was on his way with the old man to buy the pistol at the sacrifice market that he met the rustles. CHAPTER XIII Kutuzov's order to retreat to Moscow at the rising road was issued at night on the 1st of September. The first troops started once, and during the night they marched slowly and steadily without a hurry. At daybreak, however, those nearing the town at the Darugamaliv Bridge saw ahead of them masses of soldiers crowding and harrowing across the bridge, ascending on the opposite side and blocking the streets and alleys, while endless masses of troops were bearing down on them from behind. And the unreasoning hurry and alarm overcame them. They all rushed forward to the bridge, onto it, and to the force and the boats. Kutuzov himself was driven around by side streets to the other side of Moscow. By 10 o'clock in the morning of the 2nd of September, only the rear guard remained in the Darugamaliv suburb where they had Emperor Room. The main army was on the other side of Moscow where beyond it. At that very time, at 10 in the morning of the 2nd of September, Napoleon was standing among his troops on the procloning hill looking at the panoramas spread out before him. From the 26th of August to the 2nd of September, that is from the Battle of Baradino to the entry of the French into Moscow. During the whole of that agitating memorable week, there had been the exhaled in a red autumn weather that always comes as a surprise. When the sun hathens low and gives more heat than in spring, when everything shines so brightly in the rear clear atmosphere that the eyes smart. When the lungs are strengthened and refreshed by inhaling the aromatic autumn air, when even the nights are warm and when in those dark warm nights, golden stars startle and delight us continually by falling from the sky. At 10 in the morning of the 2nd of September, this weather still held. The brightness of the morning was magical. Moscow, seen from the procloning hill, lay spaciously, spread out with her river, her gardens and her churches. And as she seemed to be living her usual life, the cupola's glittering like stars in the sunlight. The view of the strange city with its peculiar architecture, such as she had never seen before, filled in Napoleon with his rather envious and uneasy curiosity man feel when they see an alien form of life that has no knowledge of them. This city was evidently living with the full force of its own life. By the indefinite science which, even at a distance, distinguished a living body from a dead one, Napoleon from the procloning hill perceived the throb of life in the tomb and felt, as it wore, the breathing of that great and beautiful body. Every Russian looking at Moscow feels her to be a mother. Every foreigner who sees her, even if ignorant of her significance as the mother city, must feel her feminine character, and Napoleon feels it. That asiatic city of the innumerable churches, holy Moscow, here it is, then at last, the famous city, it was high time. Said he, on this mountain, he ordered a plane of Moscow to be spread out before him, and summoner Lelorny the Devil, the interpreter. A tongue captured by the enemies like a maid who has lost her honor, felt he, had said so to talk about Smolensk, from that point of view, the gaze that the oriental beauty had now seen before, it seemed strange to him that his long-felt wish, which had seemed attainable, had at last been realized. In the clear morning light, he gazed now at the city and now at the plane, considering its details, and the assurance of processing it agitated on all of him. But could it be otherwise he felt, here is the capital on my feet, where is Alexander now, and of what he sees thinking, a strange, beautiful and majestic city, and a strange and majestic moment, in what light must I appear to them, felt he, thinking of his troops. Here she is, the reward for all those faint-hearted men, he reflected, glancing at those near him and at the troops who were approaching and foaming up. One word from me, one movement on my hand, and that ancient capital of the Czar through the parish, but my clemency is always ready to descend upon the vanquished, must be magnanimous and truly great, but no, it can't be true that I am immeasurable, he suddenly thought. Yet here she is lying on my feet, with her golden domes and crouches, singlating and twinkling in the sunshine, but I shall spare her. On the ancient monuments of barbarism and despotism, I will describe great wars of justice and mercy. It is just this Alexander will feel most painfully, I know him. It seemed to Napoleon that the chief import of what was taking place lay in the personal struggle between himself and Alexander. From the height of the Kremlin, yes, there is the Kremlin, yes, I will give them just a louse, I will teach them the meaning of true civilization, I will make generations of bobyards remember their conqueror with love, I will tell the reputation that I did not and do not desire war, that I have waged the war only against the false policy of their court, that I love and respect Alexander, and that in Moscow I will accept terms of peace worthy of myself and of my people, I do not wish to utilize the fortunes of war to humiliate and honor the monarch, bobyards, I will say to them, I do not desire war, I desire the peace and welfare of my subjects, however, I know their presence will inspire me and I shall speak to them as I always do, clearly, impressively and majestically, but can it be true that I am in Moscow, yes, there she lies, bring the bobyards to me, set here to his suite, a general with a brilliant suite glabbed off at once to fetch the bobyards, to our past, Napoleon had a lunch and was again standing in the same place on the Pachloning Hill awaiting the deportation, his speech to the bobyards had already taken definite shape in his imagination, that the speech was full of dignity and greatness as Napoleon understood it, he was himself carried away by the tone of magnanimity he intended to adopt toward Moscow, in his imagination he appointed days for assemblies at the palace of the Tsars, at which Russian notebooks at his own would mingle, mentally appointed a governor, one who'd win the hearts of the people, having learned that there were many charitable institutions in Moscow, he mentally decided that he would shower favor on them all, he felt that as in Africa he had to put on a bonus and sit in a mosque, he must be beneficent like the Tsars, and in order to finally to touch the hearts of the Russians, and being like all Frenchmen unable to imagine anything sentimental without a reference to Masha, Matinda, Mapova, Mia, he decided that he would place an inscription on all these establishments in large letters, this establishment is dedicated to my dear mother, or no, it should be simply, Mizan de Mamiya, he concluded, but am I really in Moscow? Yes, here it lies before me, but why is the deportation from the city so long in appearing, you wonder, meanwhile an agitated consultation was being carried on in whispers among his generals and marshals at the rear of his suite, those sent to fetch the deportation had returned with the news that the Moscow was empty, that everyone had left it, the faces of those who were not conferring together were pale and perturbed, they were not alarmed by the fact that the Moscow had been abandoned by its inhabitants, grave as the fact seen, but by the question how to tell the Emperor, without putting him in the terrible position of appearing ridiculous, that he had been waiting the Boyar so long in vain, that there were drunk mobs left in Moscow by no one else, some said that the deportation of some sort must be scraped together, others disputed that opinion and maintained that the Emperor should first be carefully and skillfully prepared and then told the truth, he would have to be told all the same, says some gentlemen of the suite, but gentlemen, the position was the more awkward because the Emperor, meditating upon his magnanimous plans, was pacing patiently up and down before the outspread map, occasionally glancing along the road to Moscow, from under his lifted hand with a bright and proud smile, but it's impossible, declared the gentlemen of the suite, shrugging their shoulders but not venturing to utter the implied word of ridicule. At last the Emperor, tired of futile expectation, his actor's instincts suggesting to him that the sublime moment had been too long joined out, was beginning to lose his sublimity, gave a sign with his hand, a single report of the signaling gun followed, and the troops who were already spread out on different sides of Moscow, moved into the city through the world, Kaluga and Dargamelov gates, faster and faster, vying with one another, they moved as the double were at a trap, vanishing amid the clouds of dust, they reached and making the air ring with the deafening roar of mingle shells, joined on by the movement of his troops, Napoleon rode with them as far as the Dargamelov gates, but there again stopped and dismounting from his horse, paced for a long time by the camera Kolesky Rampart awaiting the deportation. CHAPTER XIX. Red for LibriVox.org by Harry Ink. Meanwhile Moscow was empty, there were still people in it, perhaps a fiftieth part of its former inhabitants had remained, but it was empty. It was empty in the sense that a dying, queenless hive is empty. In a queenless hive no life is left, though to a superficial glance it seems as much alive as other hives. The bees circle around a queenless hive in the hot beams of the midday sun as gaily as around the living hives. From a distance it smells of honey, like the others, and bees fly in and out in the same way, but one only has to observe that hive to realize that there is no longer any life in it. The bees do not fly in the same way. The smell and the sound that meet the beekeeper are not the same. To the beekeeper's tap on the wall of the sick hive, instead of the former instant unanimous humming of tens of thousands of bees with their abdomens threateningly compressed and producing by the rapid vibration of their wings an aerial living sound, the only reply is a disconnected buzzing from different parts of the deserted hive. From the alighting board, instead of the former spiritualist fragrant smell of honey and venom, and the warm whiffs of crowded life come an odor of emptiness and decay, mingling with the smells of honey. There are no longer sentinels sounding alarm with their abdomens raised and ready to die in defense of the hive. There is no longer the measured quiet sound of throbbing activity like the sound of boiling water, but diverse discordant sounds of disorder. In and out of the hive long black robber bees smeared with honey fly timidly and shifterly. They do not sting, but they crawl away from danger. Formally only bees laden with honey flew into the hive and they flew out empty. Now they fly out laden. The beekeeper opens the lower part of the hive and peers in. Instead of black glossy bees, tamed by toil, clinging to one another's legs and drawing out the wax with a ceaseless hum of labor that used to hang in long clusters down to the floor of the hive. Drowsy, shriveled bees crawl about separately in various directions on the floor and the walls of the hive. Instead of a neatly glued floor swept by the bees with the fanning of their wings, there is a floor littered with bits of wax, excrement, dying bees scarcely moving their legs and dead ones that have not been cleared away. The beekeeper opens the upper part of the hive and examines the super. Instead of serried rows of bees sealing up every gap in the combs and keeping the brood warm, he sees the skillful complex structures of the combs, but no longer in their former state of purity all is neglected and foul. Black robber bees are swiftly and stealthily prowling about the combs and the short home bees shriveled and listlessed as if they were old, creep slowly about without trying to hinder the robbers having lost all motive and all sense of life. Drones, bumblebees, wasps, and butterflies knock awkwardly against the wall of the hive in their flight. Here and there among the cells containing dead brood and honey, an angry buzzing can sometimes be heard. Here and there a couple of bees by force of habit and custom cleaning out the brood cells with efforts beyond their strength to laboriously drag away a dead bee or a bumblebee without knowing why they do it. In another corner two old bees are languidly fighting, all cleaning themselves or feeding one another without themselves knowing whether they do it with a friendly or hostile intent. In a third place a crowd of bees crushing one another attack some victim and fight and smother it and the victim, enfeebled or killed, drops from above slowly and lightly as a feather among the heap of corpses. The keeper opens the two center partitions to examine the brood cells. In place of the former close dark circles formed by thousands of bees sitting back to back and guarding the high mystery of generation he sees hundreds of dull listless and sleeping shells of bees. They have almost all died unawares sitting in the sanctuary they had guarded and which is now no more. A rick of decay and death. Only a few of them still move, rise and feebly fly to settle on the enemy's hand lacking the spirit to die stinging him. The rest are dead and fall as lightly as fish scales. The beekeeper closes the hive chalks a mark on it and when he has time tears out its contents and burns it clean. So in the same way Moscow was empty when Napoleon weary, uneasy and morose paced up and down in front of the Kamakozlesky rampart awaiting what to his mind was a necessary if but formal observance of the proprieties a deputation. In various corners of Moscow there still remained a few people aimlessly moving about but following their old habits and hardly aware of what they were doing. When with due circumspection Napoleon was informed that Moscow was empty he looked angrily at his informant turned away and silently continued to walk to and fro. My courage, he said. He took his seat beside the aid of Kamp on duty and drove into the suburb. Moscow is deserted, he said to himself what an incredible event. He did not drive into the town but put up at an inn in the Dorogolmilov suburb. The coup de théâtre had not come off. End of Chapter 20 Recording by Harry Inc. Melbourne, Australia War and Peace Book 11 Chapter 21 Read for LibriVox.org by Harry Inc. The Russian troops were passing through Moscow from two o'clock at night till two in the afternoon and bore away with them the wounded and the last of the inhabitants who were leaving. The greatest crush during the movement of the troops took place at the stone, Moskva and Yalza bridges. While the troops dividing into two parts when passing around the Kremlin were thronging the Moskva and the stone bridges, a great many soldiers taking advantage of the stoppage and the congestion turned back from the bridges and slipped stealthily and silently passed the church of Vasiliy the Beatified and under Borovitsky Gate back up the hill to the Red Square when some instant told them they would easily take things not belonging to them. Crowds of the kind seen at cheap sales filled all the passages and alleys of the bazaar but there were no dealers with voices of ingratiating affability inviting customers to enter. There were no hawkers nor the usual motley crowd of female purchasers but only soldiers in uniforms and overcoats though without muskets entering the bazaar empty-handed and silently making their way out through its passages with bundles. Tradesmen and their assistants of whom there were but few moved about among the soldiers quite bewildered. They unlocked their shops and locked them up again and themselves carried goods away with the help of their assistants. On the square in front of the bazaar were drummers beating the muster call but the role of the drums did not make the looting soldiers run in the direction of the drums as formerly but made them on the contrary run farther away. Among the soldiers in the shops and the passages some men were to be seen in grey coats with closely shaved heads. Two officers one with a scarf over his uniform and mounted on a lean dark grey horse. The other in an overcoat and on foot stood at the corner of Ilyinka Street talking. A third officer galloped up to them. The General ordered them all to be driven out at once without fail. This is outrageous. Half the men have dispersed. Where are you off to? Where? He shouted to three infantrymen without muskets who, holding up the skirts of their overcoats were slipping past him into the bazaar passage. Stop you rascals! But how are you going to stop them? replied another officer. There is no getting them together. The army should push on before the rest bolt, that's all. How can one push them on? They are stuck there wedged on the bridge and they don't move. Shouldn't we put a cord in their round to prevent the rest from running away? Come! Go in there! Drive them out! shouted the senior officer. The officer in the scarf dismounted, called up a drummer and went with him into the arcade. Some soldiers started running away in a group. A shopkeeper with red pimples on his cheek, near the nose, and a calm, persistent, calculating expression on his plump face, hurriedly and ostentatiously approached the officer, swinging his arms. You're honoured, he said. Be so good as to protect us. We won't grudge trifles. You are welcome to anything. We shall be delighted. Pray! I'll fetch a piece of cloth at once for such an honourable gentleman. And even two pieces with pleasure. For we feel how it is. But what's all this sheer robbery? If you please, could not guards be placed if only to let us close the shop? Several shopkeepers crowded around the officer. Ah, what wuddle, said one of them. A thin, stern looking man. When one's head is gone, one doesn't weep for one's hair. Take what any of you like. And flourishing his arms energetically, he turned sideways to the officer. You thought very well for you, Ivan Sidorich, to talk, said the first tradesman angrily. Please, step inside your honour. Talk indeed, cried the thin one. In my three shops here I have a hundred thousand rubles worth of goods. Can they be saved when the army has gone? What people, against God's might, our hands can't fight. Come inside your honour, repeated the tradesman bowing. The officer stood perplexed, and his face showed indecision. It's not my business, he exclaimed, and strode on quickly down one of the passages. From one open shop came the sound of blows and vituperation, and just as the officer came up to it, a man in a grey coat with shave and head was flung out violently. This man, bent double, rushed past the tradesman and the officer. The officer pounced on the soldiers who were in the shop, but at that moment fearful screams reached them from the huge crowd on the Moskva Bridge, and the officer ran out into the square. What is it, what is it? he asked, but his comrade was already kelling off past facility the Beatified in the direction from which the screams came. The officer mounted his horse and rode after him. When he reached the bridge he saw two unlimbed guns, the infantry crossing the bridge, several overturned carts, and frightened and laughing faces among the troops. Beside the cannon a cart was standing, to which two horses were harnessed. Four boyzoys, with collars, were pressing close to the wheels. The cart was loaded high, and at the very top, beside a child's chair with its legs in the air, sat a peasant woman uttering piercing and desperate shrieks. He was told by his fellow officers that the screams of the crowd and the shrieks of the woman were due to the fact that General Ermolov, coming up to the crowd and learning that soldiers were dispersing among the shops while the crowds of civilians rocked the bridge, had ordered two guns to be unlimbed, and made a show of firing at the bridge. The crowd, crushing one another, upsetting carts and shouting and squeezing desperately, had cleared off the bridge, and the troops were now moving forward. End of Chapter 21. Recording by Harry Inc., Melbourne, Australia. War and Peace. Book 11, Chapter 22. Red for LibriVox.org by Harry Inc. Meanwhile the city itself was deserted. There was hardly anyone in the streets. The gates and the shops were all closed, only here and there around the taverns, solitary shouts or drunken songs could be heard. Nobody drove through the streets, and footsteps were rarely heard. The povreskaya was quite still and deserted. The huge courtyard of the Rostov's house was littered with wisps of hay and with dung from the horses, and not a soul was to be seen there. In the great drawing room of the house which had been left with all it contained, there were two people. They were the yard porter Ignat and the page boy Mishka, Vasilych's grandson, who had stayed in Moscow with his grandfather. Mishka had opened the clever cord and was strumming on it with one finger. The yard porter, his arms akimbo, stood smiling with satisfaction before the large mirror. "'Isn't it fine, eh, uncle Ignat?' said the boy, suddenly beginning to strike the keyboard with both hands. "'Only fancy,' answered Ignat, surprised at the broadening grin on his face in the mirror. "'Impudence! Impudence!' they heard behind them the voice of Marva Kuzmenitro, who had entered silently. "'How he's grinning the fat mug! Is that what you're here for? Nothing's cleared away down there, and Vasilych has worn out. Just you wait a bit.' Ignat left off smiling, adjusted his belt, and went out of the room with meekly downcast eyes. "'And I did it gently,' said the boy. "'I'll give you something gently. You monkey you,' cried Marva Kuzmenitro, raising her arm threateningly. "'Go and get the Samovar to boy her for your grandfather.' Marva Kuzmenitro flicked the dust off the clavicle and closed it, and with a deep sigh left the drawing room and locked its main door. Going out into the yard she paused to consider where she should go next, to drink tea in the servant's wing with Vasilych, or into the storeroom to put away what still lay about. She heard the sound of quickest footsteps in the quiet street. Someone stopped at the gate, and the latch rattled as someone tried to open it. Marva Kuzmenitro went to the gate. "'Who do you want?' The count. "'And who are you?' An officer. "'I have to see him,' came the reply in a pleasant, well-bred Russian voice. Marva Kuzmenitro opened the gate, and an officer of eighteen, with the round face of a rostov, entered the yard. "'They have gone away, sir. Went away yesterday at a desperate time,' said Marva Kuzmenitro cordially. The young officer, standing in the gateway as if hesitating whether to enter or not, clicked his tongue. "'How annoying!' he muttered. "'I should have come yesterday. Ah, what a pity!' Meanwhile, Marva Kuzmenitro was attentively and sympathetically examining the familiar rostov features of the young man's face, his tattered coat and trodden down boots. "'What did you want to see the count for?' she asked. "'Oh, well, it can't be helped,' he said in a tone of vexation, and he placed his hand on the gate as if to leave. He again paused in indecision. "'You see,' he suddenly said, "'I am a kinsman of the counts, and he has been very kind to me. As you see,' he glanced with an amused air and a good-natured smile at his coat and boots. My things are worn out, and I have no money, so I was going to ask the count. Marva Kuzmenitro did not let him finish. "'Just wait a minute, sir, one little moment,' she said. And as soon as the officer let go of the gate handle, she turned and, hurrying away on her old legs, went through the backyard to the servant's quarters. While Marva Kuzmenitro was running to her room, the officer walked about the yard gazing at his worn-out boots with a lowered head and a faint smile on his lips. "'Oh, what a pity I've missed uncle. What a nice old woman. Where has she run off to? And how am I to find the nearest way to overtake my regiment, which must now be getting near the Rogozki gate?' thought he. Just then Marva Kuzmenitro appeared from behind the corner of the house with a frightened, yet resolute look, carrying a rolled-up checkker chief in her hand. While still a few steps from the officer, she unfolded the checker chief, and she took out of it a white, 25 rubal assigneur and hastily handed it to him. If his Excellency had been at home as a kinsman, he would, of course, but as it is. Marva Kuzmenitro grew abashed and confused. The officer did not decline, but he took the note quietly and thanked her. "'If the Count had been at home,' Marva Kuzmenitro went on apologetically, "'Christ be with you, sir. May God preserve you.' She said she, bowing as she saw him out, swaying his head and smiling as if amused in himself. The officer ran, almost at a trot, through the deserted streets, toward the Yalza Bridge to overtake his regiment. But Marva Kuzmenitro stood at the close gate for some time with moist eyes, pensively swaying her head and feeling an unexpected flow of motherly tenderness and pity for the unknown young officer. End of Chapter 22 From an unfinished house on the Vavarka, the ground floor of which was a dram-shop, came drunken shouts and songs. On benches, around the tables in a dirty little room, sat some ten factory hands. Tipsy and perspiring with dim eyes and wide open mouths, they were all laboriously singing some song or other. They were singing discordantly, arduously, and with great effort, evidently not because they wished to sing, but because they wanted to show they were drunk and on a spree. One, a tall, fair-haired lad in a clean blue coat, was standing over the others. His face, with its fine, straight nose, would have been handsome, had it not been for his thin, compressed, twitching lips and dull, gloomy, fixed eyes. Evidently possessed by some idea, he stood over those who were seeing, and solemnly and jerkily flourished above their heads, his white arm with the sleeve turned up to the elbow, trying unnaturally to spread out his dirty fingers. The sleeve of his coat kept slipping down, and he always carefully rolled it up again with his left hand, as if it were most important that the sinewy white arm he was flourishing should be bare. In the midst of the song cries were heard, fighting and blows in the passage and porch. The tall lad waved his arm. Stop it! he exclaimed peremptorly. There's a fight, lads! And still rolling his sleeve, he went out onto the porch. The factory hands followed him. These men, who under the leadership of the tall lad were drinking in a dram shop that morning, had brought the public and some skins from the factory, and for this had had drinks served them. The blacksmiths from the neighbouring smithy hearing the sounds of revelry in the tavern and supposing it to have been broken into, wished to force their way in too, and a fight in the porch had resulted. The publican was fighting one of the smiths at the door, and when the workman came out, the smith, wrenching himself free from the tavern keeper, fell face downward on the pavement. Another smith tried to enter the doorway, pressing against the publican with his chest. The lad, with a turned up sleeve, gave the smith a blow in the face, and cried wildly, They're fighting us, lads! At that moment the first smith got up and, scratching his bruised face to make it bleed, shouted in a tearful voice, Please murder! They've killed a man, lads! Oh gracious me, a man beaten to death killed! screamed a woman coming out of a gate close by. A crowd gathered around the bloodstained smith. Haven't you robbed people enough, taking their last shirts? said a voice addressing the publican. What have you killed a man for, you thief? The tall lad, standing in the porch, turned his bleared eyes from the publican to the smith, and back again, as if considering whom he ought to fight now. Murderer! he shouted suddenly to the publican. Bind him, lads! A derse you would like to bane me! shouted the publican, pushing away the men advancing on him, and snatching his cap from his head, he flung it on the ground. As if this action had some mysterious and menacing significance, the workmen surrounding the publican paused in indecision. I know the Lord very well, mates. I'll take the matter to the captain of police. You think I won't get to him? Robbery is not permitted to anybody nowadays. shouted the publican, picking up his cap. Come along then, come along then! The publican and the tall young fellow repeated one after the other, and they moved up the street together. The bloodstained smith went beside them. The factory hands and the others followed behind, talking and shouting. At the corner of the morosecchia, opposite a large house with closed shutters and bearing a bootmaker's signboard, stood a score of thin, worn-out, gloomy-faced bootmakers wearing overalls and long, tattered coats. He should peep forks off properly, a thin working man with frowny brows and a straggly beard was saying, but he sucked our blood, and now he thinks he's crit of us. He's been middle-sleeving us all the week, and now that he's brought us to this pass, he's made off. On seeing the crowd and the bloodstained man, the workmen ceased speaking, and with eager curiosity all the bookmakers joined the moving crowd. Where are all the folks going? Why, to the police, of course. I say, is it true that we have been beaten? And what do you think? Look what the folks are saying. Questions and answers were heard. The public, and taking advantage of the increased crowd, dropped behind, and returned to his tavern. The tall youth, not noticing the disappearance of his foe, waved his bare arm and went on talking incessantly, attracting general attention to himself. It was around him that the people chiefly crowded, expecting answers from him to the questions that occupied all their minds. He must keep order. Keep the law. That's what the government is there for. Am I not right, good Christians?" said the tall youth with a scarcely perceptible smile. He thinks there's no government. How can one do without government, or else there'd be plenty who'd rob us. Ah, why talk nonsense, rejoined voices in the crowd. Would they give up Moscow like this? They told you that for fun, and you believed it. Aren't there plenty of troops on the march? Let him in indeed. That's what the government is for. You'd better listen to what the people are saying, said some of the mob pointing to the tall youth. By the wall of Chinatown a smaller group of people were gathered, around a man in a freeze coat who held a paper in his hand. An okazi! They are reading an okazi! Reading an okazi! cried voices in the crowd, and the people rushed towards the reader. The man in the freeze coat was reading the broad sheet of August 31. When the crowd collected round him he seemed confused, but at the demand of the tall lad who had pushed his way up to him, he began in a rather tremulous voice to read the sheet from the beginning. Early tomorrow I shall go to his Surin Hainas, he read. Surin Hainas, said the tall fellow with a triumphant smile on his lips and a frown on his brow. To consult with him to act and to aid the army to exterminate these scoundrels. We too will take part. The reader went on, and then paused. Do you see? shouted the youth victoriously. He is going to clear up the whole affair for you. In destroying them and will send these visitors to the devil. I will come back to dinner and will set to work. We will do completely do and undo these scoundrels. These last words were read out in the midst of complete silence. The tall lad hung his head gloomily. It was evident that no one had understood the last part. In particular the words, I will come back to dinner. Evidently displeased both the reader and the audience. The people's minds were tuned to a high pitch, and this was too simple and needlessly comprehensible. It was what any one of them might have said, and therefore was what a new case emanating from the highest authority should not say. They all stood despondent and silent. The tall youth moved his lips and swayed from side to side. We should ask him. That's he himself. Yes, ask him. Indeed, why not? He'll explain. Voices in the rear of the crowd were suddenly heard saying, and the general attention turned to the police superintendent's trap, which drove into the square attended by two mountain dragoons. The superintendent of police, who had that morning by count-restoptions orders to burn the barges and, in connection with that matter, acquired a large sum of money, which was, at that moment, in his pocket. On seeing a crowd bearing down upon him, told his coachman to stop. What people are these? he shouted to the men who were moving singly and timidly in the direction of his trap. What people are these? he shouted again, receiving no answer. Your honour, replied the shopman in the freeze-coat, your honour, in accord with the proclamation of his highest excellency the count, they desire to serve, not sparing their lives, and it is not any kind of right, but as his highest excellency said, the count has not left, he is here, and an order will be issued concerning you, said the superintendent of police. Go on, he ordered his coachman. The crowd halted, pressing around those who had heard what the superintendent had said, and looking at the departing trap. The superintendent of police turned around at that moment with a scared look, said something to his coachman, and his horses increased their speed. It's a fraud, lads! Lead the way to him himself, shouted the tall youth. Don't let him go, lads! let him answer us! Keep him! shouted different people, and the people dashed off in pursuit of the trap. Following the superintendent of police and talking loudly, the crowd went in the direction of the Lubyanka Street. There now, the gentry and the merchants have gone away and left us to perish. Do they think we're dogs? voices in the crowd were heard saying more and more frequently. End of Chapter 23 Recording by Harry Inc. Melbourne, Australia War and Peace, Book 11, Chapter 24 Read for LibriVox.org by Paul McCartan On the evening of the 1st of September, after his interview with Katoosov, Count Restoption had returned to Moscow, mortified and offended, because he had not been invited to attend the Council of War, and because Katoosov had paid no attention to his offer to take part in the defence of the city. Mazed also at the novel outlook revealed to him at the camp, which treated the tranquility of the capital and its patriotic fervour as not merely secondary, but quite irrelevant and unimportant matters. Distressed, offended and surprised by all of this, Restoption had returned to Moscow. After supper, he lay down on a sofa without undressing, and was awakened soon after midnight by a courier bringing him a letter from Katoosov. This letter requested the Count to send police officers to guide the troops through the town, as the army was retreating to the Ryazan Road beyond Moscow. This was not news to Restoption. He had known that Moscow would be abandoned not merely since his interview the previous day with Katoosov on the Pokoloni Hill, but ever since the Battle of Baradino. For all the generals who came to Moscow after that battle had said unanimously that it was impossible to fight another battle, and since then the government property had been removed every night, and half the inhabitants had left the city with Restoption's own permission. Yet all the same, this information astonished and irritated the Count, coming as it did in the form of a simple note with an order from Katoosov, and received at night, breaking in on his beauty sleep. When, later on in his memoirs, Count Restoption explained his actions at this time, he repeatedly says that he was then actuated by two important considerations, to maintain tranquility in Moscow and expedite the departure of the inhabitants. If one accepts this two-fold aim, all Restoption's actions appear irreproachable. Why were the Holy Relics, the arms, ammunition, gunpowder, and stores of corn not removed? Why were thousands of inhabitants deceived into believing that Moscow would not be given up, and thereby ruined? To presence, the tranquility of the city explains Count Restoption. Why were bundles of useless papers from the government offices, and lepages, balloon, and other articles removed? To leave the town empty, explains Count Restoption. One need only admit that public tranquility is in danger, and any action finds a justification. All the horrors of the reign of terror were based only on solicitude for public tranquility. On what, then, was Count Restoption's fear for the tranquility of Moscow based in 1812? What reason was there for assuming any probability of an uprising in the city? The inhabitants were leaving it, and the retreating troops were filling it. Why should that cause the masses to riot? Neither in Moscow nor anywhere in Russia did anything resembling an insurrection ever occur when the enemy entered a town. More than 10,000 people were still in Moscow on the 1st and 2nd of September, and, except for Amab in the Governor's Courtyard, assembled there at his bidding, nothing happened. It is obvious that there would have been even less reason to expect a disturbance among the people if, after the Battle of Borodino, when the surrender of Moscow became certain, or at least probable, Restoption, instead of exciting the people by distributing arms and broadsheets, had taken steps to remove all the holy relics from the city. The gunpowder, munitions, and money, and had told the population plainly that the town would be abandoned. Restoption, though he had patriotic sentiments, was a sanguine and impulsive man who had always moved in the highest administrative circles, and had no understanding at all of the people he supposed himself to be guiding. Ever since the enemy's entry into Smolensk, he had, in imagination, been playing the role of director of the popular feeling of the heart of Russia. Not only did it seem to him, as to all administrators, that he controlled the external actions of Moscow's inhabitants, but he also thought he controlled their mental attitude by means of his broadsheets and posters, written in a coarse tone which the people despise in their own class, and do not understand from those in authority. Restoption was so pleased with the fine role of the leader of popular feeling, and had grown so used to it, that the necessity of relinquishing that role and abandoning Moscow without any heroic display took him unawares, and he suddenly felt the ground slip away from under his feet, so that he positively did not know what to do. Though he knew it was coming, he did not till the last moment wholeheartedly believe that Moscow would be abandoned, and did not prepare for it. The inhabitants left against his wishes. If the government offices were removed, this was only done on the demand of officials to whom the county yielded reluctantly. He was absorbed in the role he had created for himself, as is often the case with those gifted with an ardent imagination. Though he had long known that Moscow would be abandoned, he knew it only with his intellect. He did not believe it in his heart, and did not adapt himself mentally to this new position of affairs. All his painstaking and energetic activity, in how far it was useful and had any effect on the people is another question, had been simply directed toward arousing in the masses his own feeling of patriotic hatred of the French. But when events assumed their true historical character, when expressing hatred for the French in words proved insufficient, when it was not even possible to express that hatred by fighting a battle, when self-confidence was of no avail in relation to the one question before Moscow, when the whole population streamed out of Moscow as one man, abandoning their belongings, improving by that negative action, all the depths of their national feeling. Then the role chosen by Rostovshin suddenly appeared senseless. He unexpectedly felt himself ridiculous, weak, and alone, with no ground to stand on. When, awakened from his sleep, he received that cold, peremptory note from Katoosov. He felt the more irritated, the more he felt himself to blame, all that he had been specially put in charge of. The state property, which he should have removed, was still in Moscow, and it was no longer possible to take the whole of it away. Who is to blame for it? Who has let things come to such a pass? he ruminated. Not I, of course. I had everything ready. I had Moscow firmly in hand. And this is what they had let it come to? Villains, traders, he thought, without clearly defining who the villains and traders were, but feeling it necessary to hate those traders, whoever they might be, who were to blame, for the false and ridiculous position in which he found himself. All that night, Kant Rostovshin issued orders, for which people came to him from all parts of Moscow. Those about him had never seen the count so morose and irritable. Your Excellency, the director of the registrar's department has sent for instructions. From the Consistory, from the Senate, from the University, from the Foundling Hospital, the Suffer Gen has sent, asking for information. What are your orders about the Far Brigade? From the Governor of the Prison, from the Superintendent of the Lunatic Asylum. All night long, such announcements were continually being received by the Count. To all these inquiries, he gave brief and angry replies, indicating that orders from him were not now needed, that the whole affair, carefully prepared by him, had now been ruined by somebody, and that, that somebody would have to bear the whole responsibility for all that might happen. Oh, tell that blockhead, he said in reply, to the question from the Registrar's Department, that he should remain to guard his documents. Now, why are you asking silly questions about the Far Brigade? They have horses, let them be off to Vladimir, and not to the other side of the country. Let them be off to Vladimir, and not leave them to the French. Your Excellency, the Superintendent of the Lunatic Asylum has come. What are your commands? My commands? Let them go away, that's all, and let the Lunatics out into the town. When Lunatics command our armies, God evidently means these other madmen to be free. In reply to an inquiry about the convicts in the prison, Count Rustoption shouted angrily at the Governor. Do you expect me to give you two battalions, which we have not got, for a convoy? Release them, that's all about it. Your Excellency, there are some political prisoners, Meshkoff, Verus Kagan. Verus Kagan, hasn't he been hanged yet? shouted Rustoption. Bring him to me. End of Chapter 24. Recording by Paul McCartan in April 2009.