Before two o'clock in the afternoon the Rostovs' four carriages, packed full and with the horses harnessed, stand at the front door. One by one the carts with the wounded have moved out of the yard. The caleche in which Prince Andrew is being taken attracts Sonya's attention as it passes the front porch. With the help of a maid she is arranging a seat for the countess in the huge high coach that stands at the entrance. Whose caleche is that? she inquires, leaning out of the carriage window. Why, did you not know, Miss? replies 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 Bolkonski himself. They say he is dying, replies the maid with a sigh. Sonya jumps out of the coach and runs to the countess. The countess, tired out and already dressed in shawl and bonnet for her journey, is pacing up and down the drawing room, waiting for the household to assemble for the usual silent prayer with closed doors before starting. Natasha is not in the room. Mamma, Prince Andrew is here, mortally wounded. He is going with us. The countess opens her eyes in dismay and, seizing Sonya's arm, glances around. Natasha? she murmurs. At that moment this news has only one significance for both of them. They know their Natasha, and alarm as to what would happen if she heard this news stifles all sympathy for the man they both liked. Natasha does not know yet, but he is going with us, Sonya says. You say he is dying? Sonya nods. The countess puts her arms around Sonya and begins to cry. The ways of God are past finding out, she thinks, feeling that the Almighty Hand, hitherto unseen, is becoming manifest in all that is now taking place. Well, Mamma? Everything is ready. What is the matter? asks Natasha, as with animated face she runs into the room. Nothing, answers the countess. If everything is ready let us start. And the countess bends over her reticule to hide her agitated face. Sonya embraces Natasha and kisses her. Natasha looks at her inquiringly. What is it? What has happened? Nothing. No. Is it something very bad for me? What is it? persists Natasha with her quick intuition. Sonya sighs and makes no reply.
The count, Petya, Madame Schoss, Mavra Kuzminichna, and Vasilich come into the drawing room and, having closed the doors, they all sit down and remain for some moments silently seated without looking at one another. The count is the first to rise, and with a loud sigh crosses himself before the icon. All the others do the same. Then the count embraces Mavra Kuzminichna and Vasilich, who are to remain in Moscow, and while they catch at his hand and kiss his shoulder he pats their backs lightly with some vaguely affectionate and comforting words. The countess goes into the oratory and there Sonya finds her on her knees before the icons that have been left here and there hanging on the wall. The most precious ones, with which some family tradition is connected, are being taken with them. In the porch and in the yard the men whom Petya has armed with swords and daggers, with trousers tucked inside their high boots and with belts and girdles tightened, are taking leave of those remaining behind. As is always the case at a departure, much has been forgotten or put in the wrong place, and for a long time two menservants stand one on each side of the open door and the carriage steps waiting to help the countess in, while maids rush with cushions and bundles from the house to the carriages, the caleche, the phaeton, and back again. They always will forget everything, says the countess. Do you not know I cannot sit like that? Dunyasha, with clenched teeth, without replying but with an aggrieved look, hastily gets into the coach to rearrange the seat. Efim, the old coachman, the only one the countess trusts to drive her, sits perched up high on the box and does not so much as glance round. From thirty years' experience he knows it will be some time yet before the order, Be off, in God's name, will be given him, and he knows that even when it is said he will be stopped once or twice more while they send back to fetch something that has been forgotten, and even after that he will again be stopped and the countess herself will lean out of the window and beg him for the love of heaven to drive carefully down the hill. He waits calmly, with more patience than the horses, especially the near one, the chestnut Falcon, who is pawing the ground and champing his bit. At last all are seated. Then Efim deliberately doffs his hat and begins crossing himself. The postilion and all the other servants do the same. Off, in God's name. Start. The high springs creak, the body of the coach sways, and the procession of carriages moves up the street. In the carriages, the caleche, and the phaeton, all cross themselves as they pass the church opposite the house. Those who are to remain in Moscow walk on either side seeing the travellers off.
Rarely has 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 leans out of the carriage window and looks back and then forward at the long train of wounded in front of them. Almost at the head of the line she can see the raised hood of Prince Andrew's caleche. She does not know who is in it, but each time she looks at the procession her eyes seek that caleche. She knows it is right in front. In Kudrino, from the Nikitski, Presnya, and Podnovinsk Streets come several other trains of vehicles similar to the Rostovs', and as they pass along Sadovaya Street the carriages and carts form two rows abreast. As they are going round the Sukharev water tower Natasha, who is inquisitively and alertly scrutinising the people driving or walking past, suddenly cries out in joyful surprise. Dear me. Mamma, Sonya, look, it is he. Look, yes, on my word, it is Bezukhov. She stares at a tall, stout man in a coachman's long coat, who from his manner of walking and moving is evidently a gentleman in disguise, accompanied by a small, sallow-faced, beardless old man in a frieze coat. No, it is not he. How can you talk such nonsense? Mamma, Natasha screams, I will stake my head it is he. Stop, stop. But the coachman cannot stop, for from Meshchanski Street come more carts and carriages, and the Rostovs are being shouted at to move on and not block the way. In fact, however, though now much farther off, the Rostovs all see Pierre, or someone extraordinarily like him, in a coachman's coat, going down the street with head bent and a serious face beside a small, beardless old man who looks like a footman. That old man notices a face thrust out of the carriage window gazing at them, respectfully touches Pierre's elbow, and points to the carriage. Pierre, evidently engrossed in thought, cannot at first understand him. At length when he has understood and looked in the direction indicated, he recognises Natasha, and following his first impulse steps instantly and rapidly toward the coach. But having taken a dozen steps he seems to remember something and stops. Natasha's face, leaning out of the window, beams with quizzical kindliness. Peter Kirilovich, come here. We have recognised you. This is wonderful. What are you doing? Why are you like this? Pierre takes her outstretched hand and kisses it awkwardly as he walks along beside her while the coach still moves on. What is the matter, Count? asks the countess in a surprised and commiserating tone. What? What? Why? Do not ask me, says Pierre, and looks round at Natasha whose radiant, happy expression, of which he is conscious without looking at her, fills him with enchantment. Are you remaining in Moscow, then? Pierre hesitates. In Moscow? Yes, in Moscow. Good-by. Ah, if only I were a man. I would certainly stay with you. How splendid, says Natasha. Mamma, if you will let me, I will stay. You were at the battle, we heard. Yes, I was. There will be another battle tomorrow, he begins, but Natasha interrupts him. But what is the matter with you, Count? You are not like yourself. Oh, do not ask me, do not ask me. I do not know myself. Tomorrow. But no. Good-by, good-by, he mutters. It is an awful time. And dropping behind the carriage he steps onto the pavement. Natasha continues to lean out of the window for a long time, beaming at him with her kindly, slightly quizzical, happy smile.
