War And Peace: Book 3 - CHAPTER VII

作者: Leo Tolstoy

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Author: Leo Tolstoy

That day Nikolay Rostov had received a note from Boris informing him that the

Ismailovsky regiment was quartered for the night fifteen versts from Olmütz, and

that he wanted to see him to give him a letter and some money. The money Rostov

particularly needed just now, when the troops after active service were

stationed near Olmütz, and the camp swarmed with well-equipped canteen keepers

and Austrian Jews, offering all kinds of attractions. The Pavlograd hussars had

been keeping up a round of gaiety, fêtes in honour of the promotions received in

the field, and excursions to Olmütz to a certain Caroline la Hongroise, who had

recently opened a restaurant there with girls as waiters. Rostov had just been

celebrating his commission as a cornet; he had bought Denisov's horse Bedouin,

too, and was in debt all round to his comrades and the canteen keepers. On

getting the note from Boris, Rostov rode into Olmütz with a comrade, dined

there, drank a bottle of wine, and rode on alone to the guards' camp to find the

companion of his childhood. Rostov had not yet got his uniform. He was wearing a

shabby ensign's jacket with a private soldier's cross, equally shabby

riding-trousers lined with worn leather, and an officer's sabre with a sword

knot. The horse he was riding was of the Don breed, bought of a Cossack on the

march. A crushed hussar cap was stuck jauntily back on one side of his head. As

he rode up to the camp of the Ismailovsky regiment, he was thinking of how he

would impress Boris and all his comrades in the guards by looking so thoroughly

a hussar who has been under fire and roughed it at the front.

The guards had made their march as though it were a pleasure excursion,

priding themselves on their smartness and discipline. They moved by short

stages, their knapsacks were carried in the transport waggons, and at every halt

the Austrian government provided the officers with excellent dinners. The

regiments made their entry into towns and their exit from them with bands

playing, and, according to the grand duke's order, the whole march had (a point

on which the guards prided themselves) been performed by the soldiers in step,

the officers too walking in their proper places. Boris had throughout the march

walked and stayed with Berg, who was by this time a captain. Berg, who had

received his company on the march, had succeeded in gaining the confidence of

his superior officers by his conscientiousness and accuracy, and had established

his financial position on a very satisfactory basis. Boris had during the same

period made the acquaintance of many persons likely to be of use to him, and by

means of a letter of recommendation brought from Pierre, had made the

acquaintance of Prince Andrey Bolkonsky, through whom he had hopes of obtaining

a post on the staff of the commander-in-chief. Berg and Boris, who had rested

well after the previous day's march, were sitting smartly and neatly dressed, in

the clean quarters assigned them, playing draughts at a round table. Berg was

holding between his knees a smoking pipe. Boris, with his characteristic nicety,

was building the draughts into a pyramid with his delicate, white fingers, while

he waited for Berg to play. He was watching his partner's face, obviously

thinking of the game, his attention concentrated, as it always was, on what he

was engaged in.

“Well, how are you going to get out of that?” he said.

“I am going to try,” answered Berg, touching the pieces, and taking his hand

away again.

At that instant the door opened.

“Here he is at last!” shouted Rostov. “And Berg too. Ah, petisanfan, alley

cooshey dormir!” he cried, repeating the saying of their old nurse's that

had once been a joke with him and Boris.

“Goodness, how changed you are!” Boris got up to greet Rostov, but as he

rose, he did not forget to hold the board, and to put back the falling pieces.

He was about to embrace his friend, but Nikolay drew back from him. With that

peculiarly youthful feeling of fearing beaten tracks, of wanting to avoid

imitation, to express one's feelings in some new way of one's own, so as to

escape the forms often conventionally used by one's elders, Nikolay wanted to do

something striking on meeting his friend. He wanted somehow to give him a pinch,

to give Berg a shove, anything rather than to kiss, as people always did on such

occasions. Boris, on the contrary, embraced Rostov in a composed and friendly

manner, and gave him three kisses.

It was almost six months since they had seen each other. And being at the

stage when young men take their first steps along the path of life, each found

immense changes in the other, quite new reflections of the different society in

which they had taken those first steps. Both had changed greatly since they were

last together, and both wanted to show as soon as possible what a change had

taken place.

“Ah, you damned floor polishers! Smart and clean, as if you'd been enjoying

yourselves; not like us poor devils at the front,” said Rostov, with martial

swagger, and with baritone notes in his voice that were new to Boris. He pointed

to his mud-stained riding-breeches. The German woman of the house popped her

head out of a door at Rostov's loud voice.

“A pretty woman, eh?” said he, winking.

“Why do you shout so? You are frightening them,” said Boris. “I didn't expect

you to-day,” he added. “I only sent the note off to you yesterday—through an

adjutant of Kutuzov's, who's a friend of mine—Bolkonsky. I didn't expect he

would send it to you so quickly. Well, how are you? Been under fire already?”

asked Boris.

Without answering, Rostov, in soldierly fashion, shook the cross of St.

George that hung on the cording of his uniform, and pointing to his arm in a

sling, he glanced at Berg.

“As you see,” he said.

“To be sure, yes, yes,” said Boris, smiling, “and we have had a capital march

here too. You know his Highness kept all the while with our regiment, so that we

had every convenience and advantage. In Poland, the receptions, the dinners, the

balls!—I can't tell you. And the Tsarevitch was very gracious to all our

officers.” And both the friends began describing; one, the gay revels of the

hussars and life at the front; the other, the amenities and advantages of

service under the command of royalty.

“Oh, you guards,” said Rostov. “But, I say, send for some wine.”

Boris frowned.

“If you really want some,” he said. And he went to the bedstead, took a purse

from under the clean pillows, and ordered some wine. “Oh, and I have a letter

and money to give you,” he added.

Rostov took the letter, and flinging the money on the sofa, put both his

elbows on the table and began reading it. He read a few lines, and looked

wrathfully at Berg. Meeting his eyes, Rostov hid his face with the letter.

“They sent you a decent lot of money, though,” said Berg, looking at the

heavy bag, that sank into the sofa. “But we manage to scrape along on our pay,

count, I can tell you in my own case. …”

“I say, Berg, my dear fellow,” said Rostov; “when you get a letter from home

and meet one of your own people, whom you want to talk everything over with, and

I'm on the scene, I'll clear out at once, so as not to be in your way. Do you

hear, be off, please, anywhere, anywhere … to the devil!” he cried, and

immediately seizing him by the shoulder, and looking affectionately into his

face, evidently to soften the rudeness of his words, he added: “you know, you're

not angry, my dear fellow, I speak straight from the heart to an old friend like

you.”

“Why, of course, count, I quite understand,” said Berg, getting up and

speaking in his deep voice.

“You might go and see the people of the house; they did invite you,” added

Boris.

Berg put on a spotless clean coat, brushed his lovelocks upwards before the

looking-glass, in the fashion worn by the Tsar Alexander Pavlovitch, and having

assured himself from Rostov's expression that his coat had been observed, he

went out of the room with a bland smile.

“Ah, what a beast I am, though,” said Rostov, as he read the letter.

“Oh, why?”

“Ah, what a pig I've been, never once to have written and to have given them

such a fright. Ah, what a pig I am!” he repeated, flushing all at once. “Well,

did you send Gavrila for some wine? That's right, let's have some!” said

he.

With the letters from his family there had been inserted a letter of

recommendation to Prince Bagration, by Anna Mihalovna's advice, which Countess

Rostov had obtained through acquaintances, and had sent to her son, begging him

to take it to its address, and to make use of it.

“What nonsense! Much use to me,” said Rostov, throwing the letter under the

table.

“What did you throw that away for?” asked Boris.

“It's a letter of recommendation of some sort; what the devil do I want with

a letter like that!”

“What the devil do you want with it?” said Boris, picking it up and reading

the address; “that letter would be of great use to you.”

“I'm not in want of anything, and I'm not going to be an adjutant to

anybody.”

“Why not?” asked Boris.

“A lackey's duty.”

“You are just as much of an idealist as ever, I see,” said Boris, shaking his

head.

“And you're just as much of a diplomat. But that's not the point. … Come, how

are you?” asked Rostov.

“Why, as you see. So far everything's gone well; but I'll own I should be

very glad to get a post as adjutant, and not to stay in the line.”

“What for?”

“Why, because if once one goes in for a military career, one ought to try to

make it as successful a career as one can.”

“Oh, that's it,” said Rostov, unmistakably thinking of something else. He

looked intently and inquiringly into his friend's eyes, apparently seeking

earnestly the solution of some question.

Old Gavrila brought in the wine.

“Shouldn't we send for Alphonse Karlitch now?” said Boris. “He'll drink with

you, but I can't.”

“Send for him, send for him. Well, how do you get on with the Teuton?” said

Rostov, with a contemptuous smile.

“He's a very, very nice, honest, and pleasant fellow,” said Boris.

Rostov looked intently into Boris's face once more and he sighed. Berg came

back, and over the bottle the conversation between the three officers became

livelier. The guardsmen told Rostov about their march and how they had been

fêted in Russia, in Poland, and abroad. They talked of the sayings and doings of

their commander, the Grand Duke, and told anecdotes of his kind-heartedness and

his irascibility. Berg was silent, as he always was, when the subject did not

concern him personally, but à propos of the irascibility of the Grand

Duke he related with gusto how he had had some words with the Grand Duke in

Galicia, when his Highness had inspected the regiments and had flown into a rage

over some irregularity in their movements. With a bland smile on his face he

described how the Grand Duke had ridden up to him in a violent rage, shouting

“Arnauts!” (“Arnauts” was the Tsarevitch's favourite term of abuse when he was

in a passion), and how he had asked for the captain. “Would you believe me,

count, I wasn't in the least alarmed, because I knew I was right. Without

boasting, you know, count, I may say I know all the regimental drill-book by

heart, and the standing orders, too, I know as I know ‘Our Father that art in

Heaven.' And so that's how it is, count, there's never the slightest detail

neglected in my company. So my conscience was at ease. I came forward.” (Berg

stood up and mimicked how he had come forward with his hand to the beak of his

cap. It would certainly have been difficult to imagine more respectfulness and

more self-complacency in a face.) “Well, he scolded, and scolded, and rated at

me, and shouted his ‘Arnauts,' and damns, and ‘to Siberia,' ” said Berg, with a

subtle smile. “I knew I was right, and so I didn't speak; how could I, count?

‘Why are you dumb?' he shouted. Still I held my tongue, and what do you think,

count? Next day there was nothing about it in the orders of the day; that's what

comes of keeping one's head. Yes, indeed, count,” said Berg, pulling at his pipe

and letting off rings of smoke.

“Yes, that's capital,” said Rostov, smiling; but Boris, seeing that Rostov

was disposed to make fun of Berg, skilfully turned the conversation. He begged

Rostov to tell them how and where he had been wounded. That pleased Rostov, and

he began telling them, getting more and more eager as he talked. He described to

them his battle at Sch

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