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In the room next to their bedroom there was a confusion of

sabers, satchels, sabretaches, open portmanteaus, and dirty

boots. Two freshly cleaned pairs with spurs had just been placed

by the wall. The servants were bringing in jugs and basins, hot

water for shaving, and their well-brushed clothes. There was a

masculine odor and a smell of tobacco.

"Hallo, Gwiska-my pipe!" came Vasili Denisov's husky voice.

"Wostov, get up!"

Rostov, rubbing his eyes that seemed glued together, raised his

disheveled head from the hot pillow.

"Why, is it late?"

"Late! It's nearly ten o'clock," answered Natasha's voice. A

rustle of starched petticoats and the whispering and laughter of

girls' voices came from the adjoining room. The door was opened a

crack and there was a glimpse of something blue, of ribbons,

black hair, and merry faces. It was Natasha, Sonya, and Petya,

who had come to see whether they were getting up.

"Nicholas! Get up!" Natasha's voice was again heard at the door.

"Directly!"