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Updated: May 16, 2025
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.
Sonya and Natasha slept in the sitting room without undressing. That night another wounded man was driven down the Povarskaya, and Mavra Kuzminichna, who was standing at the gate, had him brought into the Rostovs' yard. Mavra Kuzminichna concluded that he was a very important man. He was being conveyed in a caleche with a raised hood, and was quite covered by an apron.
She and Mavra Kuzminichna tried to get as many of the wounded as possible into their yard. "Your Papa must be told, though," said Mavra Kuzminichna. "Never mind, 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." "There now, young lady, you do take things into your head!
I am not a natural science man, and it is not my business to settle such questions; I only mean to say that people like Mavra are not uncommon. There is no need to look far; two months ago a man called Byelikov, a colleague of mine, the Greek master, died in our town. You have heard of him, no doubt.
And the old servant got down from the box and went up to the cart. "All right!" said the doctor. The old servant returned to the caleche, looked into it, shook his head disconsolately, told the driver to turn into the yard, and stopped beside Mavra Kuzminichna. "O, Lord Jesus Christ!" she murmured. She invited them to take the wounded man into the house. "The masters won't object..." she said.
"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."
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."
Well, my lad, what do you want?" He paused a moment or two, but Proshka made no reply. "Come, come!" went on the old man. "Set out the samovar, and then give Mavra the key of the store-room here it is and tell her to get out some loaf sugar for tea. Here! Wait another moment, fool! Is the devil in your legs that they itch so to be off? Listen to what more I have to tell you.
"Say what you like," exclaimed Sonya, in a despairing voice as she looked at Natasha, "say what you like, it's still too long." Natasha stepped back to look at herself in the pier glass. The dress was too long. "Really, madam, it is not at all too long," said Mavra, crawling on her knees after her young lady.
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