On Saturday, the thirty-first of August, everything in the Rostovs' house seems turned upside down. All the doors are open, all the furniture is being carried out or moved about, and the mirrors and pictures have been taken down. There are trunks in the rooms, and hay, wrapping paper, and ropes are scattered about. The peasants and house serfs carrying out the things tread heavily on the parquet floors. The yard is crowded with peasant carts, some loaded high and already corded up, others still empty. The voices and footsteps of the many servants and of the peasants who have come with the carts resound as they shout to one another in the yard and in the house. The count has been out since morning. The countess has a headache brought on by all the noise and turmoil and is lying down in the new sitting room with a vinegar compress on her head. Petya is not at home: he has gone to visit a friend with whom he means to obtain a transfer from the militia to the active army. Sonya is in the ballroom looking after the packing of the glass and china. Natasha sits on the floor of her dismantled room with dresses, ribbons, and scarves strewn all about her, gazing fixedly at the floor and holding in her hands the old ball dress, already out of fashion, which she wore at her first Petersburg ball.
Natasha is ashamed of doing nothing when everyone else is so busy, and several times that morning has tried to set to work, but her heart is not in it, and she cannot and does not know how to do anything except with all her heart and all her might. For a while she stands beside Sonya while the china is being packed and tries to help, but soon gives it up and goes to her room to pack her own things. At first she finds it amusing to give away dresses and ribbons to the maids, but when that is done and what is left still has to be packed, she finds it dull. Dunyasha, you pack, she says, and when Dunyasha willingly promises to do it all for her, Natasha sits down on the floor, takes her old ball dress, and falls into a reverie quite unrelated to what ought to occupy her thoughts now. She is roused by the talk of the maids in the next room and by the sound of their hurried footsteps going to the back porch. She gets up and looks out of the window. An enormously long row of carts full of wounded men has stopped in the street. The housekeeper, the old nurse, the cooks, coachmen, maids, footmen, postilions, and scullions stand at the gate, staring. Natasha, throwing a clean pocket handkerchief over her hair and holding an end of it in each hand, goes out into the street. Old Mavra Kuzminichna has stepped out of the crowd, gone up to a cart with a hood of bast mats, and is speaking to a pale young officer who lies inside. Then you have nobody in Moscow? You would be more comfortable somewhere in a house, in ours, for instance. The family are leaving. I do not know if it would be allowed, the officer replies in a weak voice. Here is our commanding officer: ask him. Natasha glances with frightened eyes at the wounded officer's face and at once goes to meet the stout major walking back along the street. May the wounded men stay in our house? The major raises his hand to his cap with a smile, then, seeing how serious her face and whole manner are, though she is still holding the ends of her handkerchief, ceases smiling and after some reflection replies in the affirmative. Oh yes, why not? They may.
The cart in which the officer lies is turned into the Rostovs' yard, and dozens of carts with wounded men begin, at the invitation of the townsfolk, to turn into the yards and to draw up at the entrances of the houses in Povarskaya Street. Natasha is evidently pleased to be dealing with new people outside the ordinary routine of her life. She and Mavra Kuzminichna try to get as many of the wounded as possible into their yard. Your Papa must be told, though, says the housekeeper. Never mind, what does it matter? For one day we can move into the drawing room. They can have all our half of the house. Natasha runs in on tiptoe through the half-open door into the sitting room, where there is a smell of vinegar and Hoffman's drops. Are you asleep, Mamma? She kneels by her mother: some wounded officers have been brought, they have nowhere to go, I knew you would let them come. The countess does not understand. Natasha laughs, and the countess too smiles slightly. I knew you would give permission, so I will tell them. In the hall she meets her father, who has returned with bad news. We have stayed too long. The Club is closed and the police are leaving. Papa, is it all right, I have invited some of the wounded into the house? Of course it is, he answers absently. That is not the point. Do not indulge in trifles now, but help to pack, and tomorrow we must go, go, go. At dinner Petya, having returned home, tells them the people have been getting arms in the Kremlin, and that though Rostopchin's broadsheet said he would sound a call two or three days in advance, the order has certainly already been given for everyone to go armed to the Three Hills tomorrow, and there will be a big battle there. The countess looks with timid horror at her son's eager, excited face. She realises that if she says a word about his not going to the battle, she knows he enjoys the thought of the impending engagement, he will say something about men, honour, and the fatherland, something senseless, masculine, and obstinate which there will be no contradicting, and her plans will be spoiled. Hoping to arrange to leave before then and take Petya with her as their protector and defender, she does not answer him, but after dinner calls the count aside and implores him with tears to take her away quickly, that very night if possible. With a woman's involuntary loving cunning she, who till then has not shown any alarm, says that she will die of fright if they do not leave that very night. Without any pretence she is now afraid of everything.
