Moscow's last day has come. It is a clear bright autumn day, a Sunday. The church bells everywhere are ringing for service, just as usual on Sundays. Nobody seems yet to realise what awaits the city. Only two things indicate the social condition of Moscow: the rabble, that is the poor people, and the price of commodities. An enormous crowd of factory hands, house serfs, and peasants, with whom some officials, seminarists, and gentry are mingled, has gone early that morning to the Three Hills. Having waited there for Rostopchin who does not turn up, they become convinced that Moscow will be surrendered, and then disperse all about the town to the public houses and cookshops. Prices too that day indicate the state of affairs. The price of weapons, of gold, of carts and horses, keeps rising, but the value of paper money and city articles keeps falling, so that by midday there are instances of carters removing valuable goods, such as cloth, and receiving in payment a half of what they carted, while peasant horses are fetching five hundred rubles each, and furniture, mirrors, and bronzes are being given away for nothing.
In the Rostovs' staid old-fashioned house the dissolution of former conditions of life is but little noticeable. As to the serfs the only indication is that three out of their huge retinue disappeared during the night, but nothing was stolen. As to the value of their possessions, the thirty peasant carts that have come in from their estates, and which many people envy, prove extremely valuable, and they are offered enormous sums of money for them. Not only are huge sums offered for the horses and carts, but on the previous evening and early in the morning of the first of September, orderlies and servants sent by wounded officers come to the Rostovs', and wounded men drag themselves there from the Rostovs' and from neighbouring houses where they are accommodated, entreating the servants to try to get them a lift out of Moscow. The major-domo to whom these entreaties are addressed, though he is sorry for the wounded, resolutely refuses, saying that he dare not even mention the matter to the count. Pity these wounded men as one might, it is evident that if they are 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 thinks the major-domo on his master's behalf.
On waking that morning Count Ilya Rostov leaves his bedroom softly, so as not to wake the countess who has fallen asleep only toward morning, and comes out to the porch in his lilac silk dressing gown. In the yard stand the carts ready corded. The carriages are at the front porch. The major-domo stands talking to an elderly orderly and to a pale young officer with a bandaged arm. On seeing the count he makes a significant and stern gesture to them both to go away. Well, Vasilich, is everything ready? the count asks, stroking his bald head, looking good-naturedly at the officer and the orderly and nodding to them. He likes to see new faces. We can harness at once, your excellency. Well, that is right. As soon as the countess wakes we will be off, God willing. What is it, gentlemen? Are you staying in my house? The officer comes nearer and suddenly his face flushes crimson. Count, 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 he has finished, the orderly makes the same request on behalf of his master. Oh, yes, yes, yes, the count says hastily. I shall be very pleased. Vasilich, you will see to it. Just unload one or two carts. Well, what of it, do what is necessary. But at the same moment an expression of warm gratitude on the officer's face has already sealed the order. The count looks around. In the yard, at the gates, at the window of the wings, wounded officers and their orderlies are to be seen, all looking at him and moving toward the porch. Please step into the gallery, your excellency, says the major-domo. What are your orders about the pictures? The count goes into the house with him, repeating his order not to refuse the wounded who ask for a lift. Well, never mind, some of the things can be unloaded, he adds in a soft, confidential voice, as though afraid of being overheard.
At nine o'clock the countess wakes, and Matrena Timofeevna, who performs a sort of chief gendarme's duty for her, comes to say that Madame Schoss is much offended and the young ladies' summer dresses cannot be left behind. On inquiry the countess learns that Madame Schoss is offended because her trunk has been taken down from its cart, and all the loads are being uncorded and the luggage taken out to make room for wounded men whom the count in the simplicity of his heart has ordered that they should take with them. The countess sends for her husband. What is this, my dear? I hear that the luggage is being unloaded. You know, love, an officer came to ask for a few carts for the wounded. After all, ours are things that can be bought, but think what being left behind means to them. Really now, in our own yard, we asked them in ourselves and there are officers among them. Let them be taken. Where is the hurry? The count speaks timidly, as he always does when talking of money matters. The countess is accustomed to this tone as a precursor of news of something detrimental to the children's interests, the building of a new gallery or conservatory, a private theatre or an orchestra. She is accustomed always to oppose anything announced in that timid tone and considers it her duty to do so. 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 things in the house. I do not consent, my dear, I do not. Do as you please. It is the government's business to look after the wounded. Look at the Lopukhins 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 leaves the room without replying. Papa, what are you doing that for? asks Natasha, who has followed him into her mother's room. Nothing. What business is it of yours? mutters the count angrily. But I heard. Why does Mamma object? What business is it of yours? cries the count. Natasha steps up to the window and ponders. Papa, here is Berg coming to see us, she says, looking out of the window.
