Chapter 13

           

           OnSaturday,thethirty-firstofAugust,everythingintheRostóvs’houseseemedtopsy-turvy.Allthedoorswereopen,allthefurniturewasbeingcarriedoutormovedabout,andthemirrorsandpictureshadbeentakendown.Thereweretrunksintherooms,andhay,wrappingpaper,andropeswerescatteredabout.Thepeasantsandhouseserfscarryingoutthethingsweretreadingheavilyontheparquetfloors.Theyardwascrowdedwithpeasantcarts,someloadedhighandalreadycordedup,othersstillempty.

           Thevoicesandfootstepsofthemanyservantsandofthepeasantswhohadcomewiththecartsresoundedastheyshoutedtooneanotherintheyardandinthehouse.Thecounthadbeenoutsincemorning.Thecountesshadaheadachebroughtonbyallthenoiseandturmoilandwaslyingdowninthenewsittingroomwithavinegarcompressonherhead.Pétyawasnotathome,hehadgonetovisitafriendwithwhomhemeanttoobtainatransferfromthemilitiatotheactivearmy.Sónyawasintheballroomlookingafterthepackingoftheglassandchina.Natáshawassittingonthefloorofherdismantledroomwithdresses,ribbons,andscarvesstrewnallabouther,gazingfixedlyatthefloorandholdinginherhandstheoldballdress(alreadyoutoffashion)whichshehadwornatherfirstPetersburgball.

           Natáshawasashamedofdoingnothingwheneveryoneelsewassobusy,andseveraltimesthatmorninghadtriedtosettowork,butherheartwasnotinit,andshecouldnotanddidnotknowhowtodoanythingexceptwithallherheartandallhermight.

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