War and Peace
Nesvítski with a laugh threw his arms round Prince Andrew, but
Bolkónski, turning still paler, pushed him away with an angry look and
turned to Zherkóv. The nervous irritation aroused by the appearance
of Mack, the news of his defeat, and the thought of what lay before the
Russian army found vent in anger at Zherkóv’s untimely jest.
“If you, sir, choose to make a buffoon of yourself,” he said
sharply, with a slight trembling of the lower jaw, “I can’t prevent
your doing so; but I warn you that if you dare to play the fool in my
presence, I will teach you to behave yourself.”
Nesvítski and Zherkóv were so surprised by this outburst that they
gazed at Bolkónski silently with wide-open eyes.
“What’s the matter? I only congratulated them,” said Zherkóv.
“I am not jesting with you; please be silent!” cried Bolkónski,
and taking Nesvítski’s arm he left Zherkóv, who did not know what to
say.
“Come, what’s the matter, old fellow?” said Nesvítski trying to
soothe him.
“What’s the matter?” exclaimed Prince Andrew standing still in
his excitement. “Don’t you understand that either we are officers
serving our Tsar and our country, rejoicing in the successes and
grieving at the misfortunes of our common cause, or we are merely
lackeys who care nothing for their master’s business. Quarante mille
hommes massacrés et l’armée de nos alliés détruite, et vous
trouvez là le mot pour rire,” * he said, as if strengthening his
views by this French sentence. “C’est bien pour un garçon de rien
comme cet individu dont vous avez fait un ami, mais pas pour vous, pas
pour vous. *(2) Only a hobbledehoy could amuse himself in this
way,” he added in Russian—but pronouncing the word with a French
accent—having noticed that Zherkóv could still hear him.
* “Forty thousand men massacred and the army of our allies
destroyed, and you find that a cause for jesting!”
* (2) “It is all very well for that good-for-nothing fellow
of whom you have made a friend, but not for you, not for
you.”
He waited a moment to see whether the cornet would answer, but he turned
and went out of the corridor.
CHAPTER IV
The Pávlograd Hussars were stationed two miles from Braunau. The
squadron in which Nicholas Rostóv served as a cadet was quartered in
the German village of Salzeneck. The best quarters in the village were
assigned to cavalry-captain Denísov, the squadron commander, known
throughout the whole cavalry division as Váska Denísov. Cadet Rostóv,
ever since he had overtaken the regiment in Poland, had lived with the
squadron commander.
On October 11, the day when all was astir at headquarters over the news
of Mack’s defeat, the camp life of the officers of this squadron was
proceeding as usual. Denísov, who had been losing at cards all night,
had not yet come home when Rostóv rode back early in the morning from
a foraging expedition. Rostóv in his cadet uniform, with a jerk to his
horse, rode up to the porch, swung his leg over the saddle with a supple
youthful movement, stood for a moment in the stirrup as if loathe to
part from his horse, and at last sprang down and called to his orderly.
“Ah, Bondarénko, dear friend!” said he to the hussar who rushed up
headlong to the horse. “Walk him up and down, my dear fellow,” he
continued, with that gay brotherly cordiality which goodhearted young
people show to everyone when they are happy.
“Yes, your excellency,” answered the Ukrainian gaily, tossing his
head.
“Mind, walk him up and down well!”
Another hussar also rushed toward the horse, but Bondarénko had already
thrown the reins of the snaffle bridle over the horse’s head. It was
evident that the cadet was liberal with his tips and that it paid to
serve him. Rostóv patted the horse’s neck and then his flank, and
lingered for a moment.
“Splendid! What a horse he will be!” he thought with a smile, and
holding up his saber, his spurs jingling, he ran up the steps of the
porch. His landlord, who in a waistcoat and a pointed cap, pitchfork in
hand, was clearing manure from the cowhouse, looked out, and his face
immediately brightened on seeing Rostóv. “Schön gut Morgen! Schön
gut Morgen!” * he said winking with a merry smile, evidently pleased
to greet the young man.
* “A very good morning! A very good morning!”
“Schon fleissig?” * said Rostóv with the same gay brotherly smile
which did not leave his eager face. “Hoch Oestreicher! Hoch Russen!
Kaiser Alexander hoch!” *(2) said he, quoting words often repeated by
the German landlord.
* “Busy already?”
* (2) “Hurrah for the Austrians! Hurrah for the Russians!
Hurrah for Emperor Alexander!”
The German laughed, came out of the cowshed, pulled off his cap, and
waving it above his head cried:
“Und die ganze Welt hoch!” *
* “And hurrah for the whole world!”
Rostóv waved his cap above his head like the German and cried laughing,
“Und vivat die ganze Welt!” Though neither the German cleaning his
cowshed nor Rostóv back with his platoon from foraging for hay had any
reason for rejoicing, they looked at each other with joyful delight and
brotherly love, wagged their heads in token of their mutual affection,
and parted smiling, the German returning to his cowshed and Rostóv
going to the cottage he occupied with Denísov.
“What about your master?” he asked Lavrúshka, Denísov’s orderly,
whom all the regiment knew for a rogue.
“Hasn’t been in since the evening. Must have been losing,”
answered Lavrúshka. “I know by now, if he wins he comes back early to
brag about it, but if he stays out till morning it means he’s lost and
will come back in a rage. Will you have coffee?”
“Yes, bring some.”
Ten minutes later Lavrúshka brought the coffee. “He’s coming!”
said he. “Now for trouble!” Rostóv looked out of the window and
saw Denísov coming home. Denísov was a small man with a red face,
sparkling black eyes, and black tousled mustache and hair. He wore an
unfastened cloak, wide breeches hanging down in creases, and a crumpled
shako on the back of his head. He came up to the porch gloomily, hanging
his head.
“Lavwúska!” he shouted loudly and angrily, “take it off,
blockhead!”
“Well, I am taking it off,” replied Lavrúshka’s voice.
“Ah, you’re up already,” said Denísov, entering the room.
“Long ago,” answered Rostóv, “I have already been for the hay,
and have seen Fräulein Mathilde.”
“Weally! And I’ve been losing, bwother. I lost yesterday like a
damned fool!” cried Denísov, not pronouncing his r’s. “Such ill
luck! Such ill luck. As soon as you left, it began and went on. Hullo
there! Tea!”
Puckering up his face though smiling, and showing his short strong
teeth, he began with stubby fingers of both hands to ruffle up his thick
tangled black hair.
“And what devil made me go to that wat?” (an officer nicknamed
“the rat”) he said, rubbing his forehead and whole face with both
hands. “Just fancy, he didn’t let me win a single cahd, not one
cahd.”
He took the lighted pipe that was offered to him, gripped it in his
fist, and tapped it on the floor, making the sparks fly, while he
continued to shout.
“He lets one win the singles and collahs it as soon as one doubles it;
gives the singles and snatches the doubles!”
He scattered the burning tobacco, smashed the pipe, and threw it away.
Then he remained silent for a while, and all at once looked cheerfully
with his glittering, black eyes at Rostóv.
“If at least we had some women here; but there’s nothing foh one
to do but dwink. If we could only get to fighting soon. Hullo, who’s
there?” he said, turning to the door as he heard a tread of heavy
boots and the clinking of spurs that came to a stop, and a respectful
cough.
“The squadron quartermaster!” said Lavrúshka.
Denísov’s face puckered still more.
“Wetched!” he muttered, throwing down a purse with some gold in it.
“Wostóv, deah fellow, just see how much there is left and shove the
purse undah the pillow,” he said, and went out to the quartermaster.
Rostóv took the money and, mechanically arranging the old and new coins
in separate piles, began counting them.
“Ah! Telyánin! How d’ye do? They plucked me last night,” came
Denísov’s voice from the next room.
“Where? At Bykov’s, at the rat’s... I knew it,” replied a piping
voice, and Lieutenant Telyánin, a small officer of the same squadron,
entered the room.
Rostóv thrust the purse under the pillow and shook the damp little hand
which was offered him. Telyánin for some reason had been transferred
from the Guards just before this campaign. He behaved very well in the
regiment but was not liked; Rostóv especially detested him and was
unable to overcome or conceal his groundless antipathy to the man.
“Well, young cavalryman, how is my Rook behaving?” he asked. (Rook
was a young horse Telyánin had sold to Rostóv.)
The lieutenant never looked the man he was speaking to straight in the
face; his eyes continually wandered from one object to another.
“I saw you riding this morning...” he added.
“Oh, he’s all right, a good horse,” answered Rostóv, though the
horse for which he had paid seven hundred rubbles was not worth half
that sum. “He’s begun to go a little lame on the left foreleg,” he
added.
“The hoof’s cracked! That’s nothing. I’ll teach you what to do
and show you what kind of rivet to use.”
“Yes, please do,” said Rostóv.
“I’ll show you, I’ll show you! It’s not a secret. And it’s a
horse you’ll thank me for.”
“Then I’ll have it brought round,” said Rostóv wishing to avoid
Telyánin, and he went out to give the order.
In the passage Denísov, with a pipe, was squatting on the threshold
facing the quartermaster who was reporting to him. On seeing Rostóv,
Denísov screwed up his face and pointing over his shoulder with his
thumb to the room where Telyánin was sitting, he frowned and gave a
shudder of disgust.
“Ugh! I don’t like that fellow,” he said, regardless of the
quartermaster’s presence.
Rostóv shrugged his shoulders as much as to say: “Nor do I, but
what’s one to do?” and, having given his order, he returned to
Telyánin.
Telyánin was sitting in the same indolent pose in which Rostóv had
left him, rubbing his small white hands.
“Well there certainly are disgusting people,” thought Rostóv as he
entered.
“Have you told them to bring the horse?” asked Telyánin, getting up
and looking carelessly about him.
“I have.”
“Let us go ourselves. I only came round to ask Denísov about
yesterday’s order. Have you got it, Denísov?”
“Not yet. But where are you off to?”
“I want to teach this young man how to shoe a horse,” said
Telyánin.
They went through the porch and into the stable. The lieutenant
explained how to rivet the hoof and went away to his own quarters.
When Rostóv went back there was a bottle of vodka and a sausage on the
table. Denísov was sitting there scratching with his pen on a sheet of
paper. He looked gloomily in Rostóv’s face and said: “I am witing
to her.”
He leaned his elbows on the table with his pen in his hand and,
evidently glad of a chance to say quicker in words what he wanted to
write, told Rostóv the contents of his letter.
“You see, my fwiend,” he said, “we sleep when we don’t love. We
are childwen of the dust... but one falls in love and one is a God, one
is pua’ as on the fihst day of cweation... Who’s that now? Send him
to the devil, I’m busy!” he shouted to Lavrúshka, who went up to
him not in the least abashed.
“Who should it be? You yourself told him to come. It’s the
quartermaster for the money.”
Denísov frowned and was about to shout some reply but stopped.
“Wetched business,” he muttered to himself. “How much is left in
the puhse?” he asked, turning to Rostóv.
“Seven new and three old imperials.”