War and Peace
In the tavern, before which stood the doctor’s covered cart, there were
already some five officers. Mary Hendríkhovna, a plump little blonde
German, in a dressing jacket and nightcap, was sitting on a broad bench
in the front corner. Her husband, the doctor, lay asleep behind her.
Rostóv and Ilyín, on entering the room, were welcomed with merry shouts
and laughter.
“Dear me, how jolly we are!” said Rostóv laughing.
“And why do you stand there gaping?”
“What swells they are! Why, the water streams from them! Don’t make our
drawing room so wet.”
“Don’t mess Mary Hendríkhovna’s dress!” cried other voices.
Rostóv and Ilyín hastened to find a corner where they could change into
dry clothes without offending Mary Hendríkhovna’s modesty. They were
going into a tiny recess behind a partition to change, but found it
completely filled by three officers who sat playing cards by the light
of a solitary candle on an empty box, and these officers would on no
account yield their position. Mary Hendríkhovna obliged them with the
loan of a petticoat to be used as a curtain, and behind that screen
Rostóv and Ilyín, helped by Lavrúshka who had brought their kits,
changed their wet things for dry ones.
A fire was made up in the dilapidated brick stove. A board was found,
fixed on two saddles and covered with a horsecloth, a small samovar was
produced and a cellaret and half a bottle of rum, and having asked Mary
Hendríkhovna to preside, they all crowded round her. One offered her a
clean handkerchief to wipe her charming hands, another spread a jacket
under her little feet to keep them from the damp, another hung his coat
over the window to keep out the draft, and yet another waved the flies
off her husband’s face, lest he should wake up.
“Leave him alone,” said Mary Hendríkhovna, smiling timidly and happily.
“He is sleeping well as it is, after a sleepless night.”
“Oh, no, Mary Hendríkhovna,” replied the officer, “one must look after
the doctor. Perhaps he’ll take pity on me someday, when it comes to
cutting off a leg or an arm for me.”
There were only three tumblers, the water was so muddy that one could
not make out whether the tea was strong or weak, and the samovar held
only six tumblers of water, but this made it all the pleasanter to
take turns in order of seniority to receive one’s tumbler from Mary
Hendríkhovna’s plump little hands with their short and not overclean
nails. All the officers appeared to be, and really were, in love with
her that evening. Even those playing cards behind the partition soon
left their game and came over to the samovar, yielding to the general
mood of courting Mary Hendríkhovna. She, seeing herself surrounded by
such brilliant and polite young men, beamed with satisfaction, try as
she might to hide it, and perturbed as she evidently was each time her
husband moved in his sleep behind her.
There was only one spoon, sugar was more plentiful than anything
else, but it took too long to dissolve, so it was decided that Mary
Hendríkhovna should stir the sugar for everyone in turn. Rostóv received
his tumbler, and adding some rum to it asked Mary Hendríkhovna to stir
it.
“But you take it without sugar?” she said, smiling all the time, as if
everything she said and everything the others said was very amusing and
had a double meaning.
“It is not the sugar I want, but only that your little hand should stir
my tea.”
Mary Hendríkhovna assented and began looking for the spoon which someone
meanwhile had pounced on.
“Use your finger, Mary Hendríkhovna, it will be still nicer,” said
Rostóv.
“Too hot!” she replied, blushing with pleasure.
Ilyín put a few drops of rum into the bucket of water and brought it to
Mary Hendríkhovna, asking her to stir it with her finger.
“This is my cup,” said he. “Only dip your finger in it and I’ll drink it
all up.”
When they had emptied the samovar, Rostóv took a pack of cards and
proposed that they should play “Kings” with Mary Hendríkhovna. They drew
lots to settle who should make up her set. At Rostóv’s suggestion it
was agreed that whoever became “King” should have the right to kiss Mary
Hendríkhovna’s hand, and that the “Booby” should go to refill and reheat
the samovar for the doctor when the latter awoke.
“Well, but supposing Mary Hendríkhovna is ‘King’?” asked Ilyín.
“As it is, she is Queen, and her word is law!”
They had hardly begun to play before the doctor’s disheveled head
suddenly appeared from behind Mary Hendríkhovna. He had been awake for
some time, listening to what was being said, and evidently found nothing
entertaining or amusing in what was going on. His face was sad and
depressed. Without greeting the officers, he scratched himself and asked
to be allowed to pass as they were blocking the way. As soon as he
had left the room all the officers burst into loud laughter and Mary
Hendríkhovna blushed till her eyes filled with tears and thereby became
still more attractive to them. Returning from the yard, the doctor
told his wife (who had ceased to smile so happily, and looked at him in
alarm, awaiting her sentence) that the rain had ceased and they must go
to sleep in their covered cart, or everything in it would be stolen.
“But I’ll send an orderly.... Two of them!” said Rostóv. “What an idea,
doctor!”
“I’ll stand guard on it myself!” said Ilyín.
“No, gentlemen, you have had your sleep, but I have not slept for two
nights,” replied the doctor, and he sat down morosely beside his wife,
waiting for the game to end.
Seeing his gloomy face as he frowned at his wife, the officers grew
still merrier, and some of them could not refrain from laughter, for
which they hurriedly sought plausible pretexts. When he had gone, taking
his wife with him, and had settled down with her in their covered cart,
the officers lay down in the tavern, covering themselves with their
wet cloaks, but they did not sleep for a long time; now they exchanged
remarks, recalling the doctor’s uneasiness and his wife’s delight, now
they ran out into the porch and reported what was taking place in the
covered trap. Several times Rostóv, covering his head, tried to go
to sleep, but some remark would arouse him and conversation would be
resumed, to the accompaniment of unreasoning, merry, childlike laughter.
CHAPTER XIV
It was nearly three o’clock but no one was yet asleep, when the
quartermaster appeared with an order to move on to the little town
of Ostróvna. Still laughing and talking, the officers began hurriedly
getting ready and again boiled some muddy water in the samovar. But
Rostóv went off to his squadron without waiting for tea. Day was
breaking, the rain had ceased, and the clouds were dispersing. It felt
damp and cold, especially in clothes that were still moist. As they left
the tavern in the twilight of the dawn, Rostóv and Ilyín both glanced
under the wet and glistening leather hood of the doctor’s cart, from
under the apron of which his feet were sticking out, and in the middle
of which his wife’s nightcap was visible and her sleepy breathing
audible.
“She really is a dear little thing,” said Rostóv to Ilyín, who was
following him.
“A charming woman!” said Ilyín, with all the gravity of a boy of
sixteen.
Half an hour later the squadron was lined up on the road. The command
was heard to “mount” and the soldiers crossed themselves and mounted.
Rostóv riding in front gave the order “Forward!” and the hussars, with
clanking sabers and subdued talk, their horses’ hoofs splashing in the
mud, defiled in fours and moved along the broad road planted with birch
trees on each side, following the infantry and a battery that had gone
on in front.
Tattered, blue-purple clouds, reddening in the east, were scudding
before the wind. It was growing lighter and lighter. That curly grass
which always grows by country roadsides became clearly visible, still
wet with the night’s rain; the drooping branches of the birches, also
wet, swayed in the wind and flung down bright drops of water to one
side. The soldiers’ faces were more and more clearly visible. Rostóv,
always closely followed by Ilyín, rode along the side of the road
between two rows of birch trees.
When campaigning, Rostóv allowed himself the indulgence of riding not
a regimental but a Cossack horse. A judge of horses and a sportsman,
he had lately procured himself a large, fine, mettlesome, Donéts horse,
dun-colored, with light mane and tail, and when he rode it no one could
outgallop him. To ride this horse was a pleasure to him, and he thought
of the horse, of the morning, of the doctor’s wife, but not once of the
impending danger.
Formerly, when going into action, Rostóv had felt afraid; now he had
not the least feeling of fear. He was fearless, not because he had grown
used to being under fire (one cannot grow used to danger), but because
he had learned how to manage his thoughts when in danger. He had grown
accustomed when going into action to think about anything but what would
seem most likely to interest him—the impending danger. During the
first period of his service, hard as he tried and much as he reproached
himself with cowardice, he had not been able to do this, but with time
it had come of itself. Now he rode beside Ilyín under the birch trees,
occasionally plucking leaves from a branch that met his hand, sometimes
touching his horse’s side with his foot, or, without turning round,
handing a pipe he had finished to an hussar riding behind him, with as
calm and careless an air as though he were merely out for a ride. He
glanced with pity at the excited face of Ilyín, who talked much and in
great agitation. He knew from experience the tormenting expectation of
terror and death the cornet was suffering and knew that only time could
help him.
As soon as the sun appeared in a clear strip of sky beneath the clouds,
the wind fell, as if it dared not spoil the beauty of the summer morning
after the storm; drops still continued to fall, but vertically now, and
all was still. The whole sun appeared on the horizon and disappeared
behind a long narrow cloud that hung above it. A few minutes later it
reappeared brighter still from behind the top of the cloud, tearing its
edge. Everything grew bright and glittered. And with that light, and as
if in reply to it, came the sound of guns ahead of them.
Before Rostóv had had time to consider and determine the distance of
that firing, Count Ostermann-Tolstóy’s adjutant came galloping from
Vítebsk with orders to advance at a trot along the road.
The squadron overtook and passed the infantry and the battery—which had
also quickened their pace—rode down a hill, and passing through an empty
and deserted village again ascended. The horses began to lather and the
men to flush.
“Halt! Dress your ranks!” the order of the regimental commander was
heard ahead. “Forward by the left. Walk, march!” came the order from in
front.
And the hussars, passing along the line of troops on the left flank of
our position, halted behind our Uhlans who were in the front line. To
the right stood our infantry in a dense column: they were the reserve.
Higher up the hill, on the very horizon, our guns were visible through
the wonderfully clear air, brightly illuminated by slanting morning
sunbeams. In front, beyond a hollow dale, could be seen the enemy’s
columns and guns. Our advanced line, already in action, could be heard
briskly exchanging shots with the enemy in the dale.
At these sounds, long unheard, Rostóv’s spirits rose, as at the strains
of the merriest music. Trap-ta-ta-tap! cracked the shots, now together,
now several quickly one after another. Again all was silent and then
again it sounded as if someone were walking on detonators and exploding
them.