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Meanwhile, the city itself was deserted. There was hardly
anyone in the streets. The gates and shops were all closed, only
here and there round the taverns solitary shouts or drunken songs
could be heard. Nobody drove through the streets and footsteps
were rarely heard. The Povarskaya was quite still and deserted.
The huge courtyard of the Rostovs' 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, were two people. They were the
yard porter Ignat, and the page boy Mishka, Vasilich's grandson
who had stayed in Moscow with his grandfather. Mishka had opened
the clavichord 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 Mavra Kuzminichna 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 Vasilich is worn out. Just you wait
a bit!"
Ignat left off smiling, adjusted his belt, and went out of
the room with meekly downcast eyes.
"Aunt, I did it gently," said the boy.
"I'll give you something gently, you monkey you!"
cried Mavra Kuzminichna, raising her arm threateningly. "Go
and get the samovar to boil for your grandfather."
Mavra Kuzminichna flicked the dust off the clavichord 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 servants' wing with Vasilich, or
into the storeroom to put away what still lay about.
She heard the sound of quick footsteps in the quiet street.
Someone stopped at the gate, and the latch rattled as someone
tried to open it. Mavra Kuzminichna went to the gate.
"Who do you want?"
"The count- Count Ilya Andreevich Rostov."
"And who are you?"
"An officer, I have to see him," came the reply
in a pleasant, well-bred Russian voice.
Mavra Kuzminichna 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 vespertime,"
said Mavra Kuzminichna cordially.
The young officer standing in the gateway, as if hesitating
whether to enter or not, clicked his tongue.
"Ah, how annoying!" he muttered. "I should
have come yesterday.... Ah, what a pity."
Meanwhile, Mavra Kuzminichna 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!" said he in a tone
of vexation and 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 count's and he has been very kind to me. As you see"
(he glanced with an amused air and 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..."
Mavra Kuzminichna did not let him finish.
"Just wait a minute, sir. One little moment," said
she.
And as soon as the officer let go of the gate handle she turned
and, hurrying away on her old legs, went through the back yard
to the servants' quarters.
While Mavra Kuzminichna was running to her room the officer
walked about the yard gazing at his worn-out boots with lowered
head and a faint smile on his lips. "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
by now be getting near the Rogozhski gate?" thought he. Just
then Mavra Kuzminichna appeared from behind the corner of the
house with a frightened yet resolute look, carrying a rolled-up
check kerchief in her hand. While still a few steps from the officer
she unfolded the kerchief and took out of it a white twenty-five-ruble
assignat and hastily handed it to him.
"If his excellency had been at home, as a kinsman he
would of course... but as it is..."
Mavra Kuzminichna grew abashed and confused. The officer did
not decline, but took the note quietly and thanked her.
"If the count had been at home..." Mavra Kuzminichna
went on apologetically. "Christ be with you, sir! May God
preserve you!" said she, bowing as she saw him out.
Swaying his head and smiling as if amused at himself, the
officer ran almost at a trot through the deserted streets toward
the Yauza bridge to overtake his regiment.
But Mavra Kuzminichna stood at the closed 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.
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