it justice! I tell you, Papa” (he smote himself on the breast as a general he had heard speaking had done, but Berg did it a trifle late for he should have struck his breast at the words “Russian army”), “I tell you frankly that we, the commanders, far from having to urge the men on or anything of that kind, could hardly restrain those … those … yes, those exploits of antique valor,” he went on rapidly. “General Barclay de Tolly risked his life everywhere at the head of the troops, I can assure you. Our corps was stationed on a hillside. You can imagine!”
And Berg related all that he remembered of the various tales he had heard those days. Natásha watched him with an intent gaze that confused him, as if she were trying to find in his face the answer to some question.
“Altogether such heroism as was displayed by the Russian warriors cannot be imagined or adequately praised!” said Berg, glancing round at Natásha, and as if anxious to conciliate her, replying to her intent look with a smile.
“ ‘Russia is not in Moscow, she lives in the hearts of her sons!’ Isn’t it so, Papa?” said he.
Just then the countess came in from the sitting room with a weary and dissatisfied expression. Berg hurriedly jumped up, kissed her hand, asked about her health, and, swaying his head from side to side to express sympathy, remained standing beside her.
“Yes, Mamma, I tell you sincerely that these are hard and sad times for every Russian. But why are you so anxious? You have still time to get away. …”
“I can’t think what the servants are about,” said the countess, turning to