|
On the twelfth of November, Kutuzov's active army, in camp
before Olmutz, was preparing to be reviewed next day by the two
Emperors- the Russian and the Austrian. The Guards, just arrived
from Russia, spent the night ten miles from Olmutz and next morning
were to come straight to the review, reaching the field at Olmutz
by ten o'clock.
That day Nicholas Rostov received a letter from Boris, telling
him that the Ismaylov regiment was quartered for the night ten
miles from Olmutz and that he wanted to see him as he had a letter
and money for him. Rostov was particularly in need of money now
that the troops, after their active service, were stationed near
Olmutz and the camp swarmed with well-provisioned sutlers and
Austrian Jews offering all sorts of tempting wares. The Pavlograds
held feast after feast, celebrating awards they had received for
the campaign, and made expeditions to Olmutz to visit a certain
Caroline the Hungarian, who had recently opened a restaurant there
with girls as waitresses. Rostov, who had just celebrated his
promotion to a cornetcy and bought Denisov's horse, Bedouin, was
in debt all round, to his comrades and the sutlers. On receiving
Boris' letter he rode with a fellow officer to Olmutz, dined there,
drank a bottle of wine, and then set off alone to the Guards'
camp to find his old playmate. Rostov had not yet had time to
get his uniform. He had on a shabby cadet jacket, decorated with
a soldier's cross, equally shabby cadet's riding breeches lined
with worn leather, and an officer's saber with a sword knot. The
Don horse he was riding was one he had bought from a Cossack during
the campaign, and he wore a crumpled hussar cap stuck jauntily
back on one side of his head. As he rode up to the camp he thought
how he would impress Boris and all his comrades of the Guards
by his appearance- that of a fighting hussar who had been under
fire.
The Guards had made their whole march as if on a pleasure
trip, parading their cleanliness and discipline. They had come
by easy stages, their knapsacks conveyed on carts, and the Austrian
authorities had provided excellent dinners for the officers at
every halting place. The regiments had entered and left the town
with their bands playing, and by the Grand Duke's orders the men
had marched all the way in step (a practice on which the Guards
prided themselves), the officers on foot and at their proper posts.
Boris had been quartered, and had marched all the way, with Berg
who was already in command of a company. Berg, who had obtained
his captaincy during the campaign, had gained the confidence of
his superiors by his promptitude and accuracy and had arranged
his money matters very satisfactorily. Boris, during the campaign,
had made the acquaintance of many persons who might prove useful
to him, and by a letter of recommendation he had brought from
Pierre had become acquainted with Prince Andrew Bolkonski, through
whom he hoped to obtain a post on the commander in chief's staff.
Berg and Boris, having rested after yesterday's march, were sitting,
clean and neatly dressed, at a round table in the clean quarters
allotted to them, playing chess. Berg held a smoking pipe between
his knees. Boris, in the accurate way characteristic of him, was
building a little pyramid of chessmen with his delicate white
fingers while awaiting Berg's move, and watched his opponent's
face, evidently thinking about the game as he always thought only
of whatever he was engaged on.
"Well, how are you going to get out of that?" he
remarked.
"We'll try to," replied Berg, touching a pawn and
then removing his hand.
At that moment the door opened.
"Here he is at last!" shouted Rostov. "And
Berg too! Oh, you petisenfans, allay cushay dormir!" he exclaimed,
imitating his Russian nurse's French, at which he and Boris used
to laugh long ago.
"Dear me, how you have changed!"
Boris rose to meet Rostov, but in doing so did not omit to
steady and replace some chessmen that were falling. He was about
to embrace his friend, but Nicholas avoided him. With that peculiar
feeling of youth, that dread of beaten tracks, and wish to express
itself in a manner different from that of its elders which is
often insincere, Nicholas wished to do something special on meeting
his friend. He wanted to pinch him, push him, do anything but
kiss him- a thing everybody did. But notwithstanding this, Boris
embraced him in a quiet, friendly way and kissed him three times.
They had not met for nearly half a year and, being at the
age when young men take their first steps on life's road, each
saw immense changes in the other, quite a new reflection of the
society in which they had taken those first steps. Both had changed
greatly since they last met and both were in a hurry to show the
changes that had taken place in them.
"Oh, you damned dandies! Clean and fresh as if you'd
been to a fete, not like us sinners of the line," cried Rostov,
with martial swagger and with baritone notes in his voice, new
to Boris, pointing to his own mud-bespattered breeches. The German
landlady, hearing Rostov's loud voice, popped her head in at the
door.
"Eh, is she pretty?" he asked with a wink.
"Why do you shout so? You'll frighten them!" said
Boris. "I did not expect you today," he added. "I
only sent you the note yesterday by Bolkonski- an adjutant of
Kutuzov's, who's a friend of mine. I did not think he would get
it to you so quickly.... Well, how are you? Been under fire already?"
asked Boris.
Without answering, Rostov shook the soldier's Cross of St.
George fastened to the cording of his uniform and, indicating
a bandaged arm, glanced at Berg with a smile.
"As you see," he said.
"Indeed? Yes, yes!" said Boris, with a smile. "And
we too have had a splendid march. You know, of course, that His
Imperial Highness rode with our regiment all the time, so that
we had every comfort and every advantage. What receptions we had
in Poland! What dinners and balls! I can't tell you. And the Tsarevich
was very gracious to all our officers."
And the two friends told each other of their doings, the one
of his hussar revels and life in the fighting line, the other
of the pleasures and advantages of service under members of the
Imperial family.
"Oh, you Guards!" said Rostov. "I say, send
for some wine."
Boris made a grimace.
"If you really want it," said he.
He went to his bed, drew a purse from under the clean pillow,
and sent for wine.
"Yes, and I have some money and a letter to give you,"
he added.
Rostov took the letter and, throwing the money on the sofa,
put both arms on the table and began to read. After reading a
few lines, he glanced angrily at Berg, then, meeting his eyes,
hid his face behind the letter.
"Well, they've sent you a tidy sum," said Berg,
eying the heavy purse that sank into the sofa. "As for us,
Count, we get along on our pay. I can tell you for myself..."
"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 happen to be there,
I'll go at once, to be out of your way! Do go somewhere, anywhere...
to the devil!" he exclaimed, and immediately seizing him
by the shoulder and looking amiably into his face, evidently wishing
to soften the rudeness of his words, he added, "Don't be
hurt, my dear fellow; you know I speak from my heart as to an
old acquaintance."
"Oh, don't mention it, Count! I quite understand,"
said Berg, getting up and speaking in a muffled and guttural voice.
"Go across to our hosts: they invited you," added
Boris.
Berg put on the cleanest of coats, without a spot or speck
of dust, stood before a looking glass and brushed the hair on
his temples upwards, in the way affected by the Emperor Alexander,
and, having assured himself from the way Rostov looked at it that
his coat had been noticed, left the room with a pleasant smile.
"Oh dear, what a beast I am!" muttered Rostov, as
he read the letter.
"Why?"
"Oh, what a pig I am, not to have written and to have
given them such a fright! Oh, what a pig I am!" he repeated,
flushing suddenly. "Well, have you sent Gabriel for some
wine? All right let's have some!"
In the letter from his parents was enclosed a letter of recommendation
to Bagration which the old countess at Anna Mikhaylovna's advice
had obtained through an acquaintance and sent to her son, asking
him to take it to its destination and make use of it.
"What nonsense! Much I need it!" said Rostov, throwing
the letter under the table.
"Why have you thrown that away?" asked Boris.
"It is some letter of recommendation... what the devil
do I want it for!"
"Why 'What the devil'?" said Boris, picking it up
and reading the address. "This letter would be of great use
to you."
"I want nothing, and I won't be anyone's adjutant."
"Why not?" inquired Boris.
"It's a lackey's job!"
"You are still the same dreamer, I see," remarked
Boris, shaking his head.
"And you're still the same diplomatist! But that's not
the point... Come, how are you?" asked Rostov.
"Well, as you see. So far everything's all right, but
I confess I should much like to be an adjutant and not remain
at the front."
"Why?"
"Because when once a man starts on military service,
he should try to make as successful a career of it as possible."
"Oh, that's it!" said Rostov, evidently thinking
of something else.
He looked intently and inquiringly into his friend's eyes,
evidently trying in vain to find the answer to some question.
Old Gabriel brought in the wine.
"Shouldn't we now send for Berg?" asked Boris. "He
would drink with you. I can't."
"Well, send for him... and how do you get on with that
German?" asked Rostov, with a contemptuous smile.
"He is a very, very nice, honest, and pleasant fellow,"
answered Boris.
Again Rostov looked intently into Boris' eyes and sighed.
Berg returned, and over the bottle of wine conversation between
the three officers became animated. The Guardsmen told Rostov
of their march and how they had been made much of in Russia, Poland,
and abroad. They spoke of the sayings and doings of their commander,
the Grand Duke, and told stories of his kindness and irascibility.
Berg, as usual, kept silent when the subject did not relate to
himself, but in connection with the stories of the Grand Duke's
quick temper he related with gusto how in Galicia he had managed
to deal with the Grand Duke when the latter made a tour of the
regiments and was annoyed at the irregularity of a movement. With
a pleasant smile Berg related how the Grand Duke had ridden up
to him in a violent passion, shouting: "Arnauts!" ("Arnauts"
was the Tsarevich's favorite expression when he was in a rage)
and called for the company commander.
"Would you believe it, Count, I was not at all alarmed,
because I knew I was right. Without boasting, you know, I may
say that I know the Army Orders by heart and know the Regulations
as well as I do the Lord's Prayer. So, Count, there never is any
negligence in my company, and so my conscience was at ease. I
came forward...." (Berg stood up and showed how he presented
himself, with his hand to his cap, and really it would have been
difficult for a face to express greater respect and self-complacency
than his did.) "Well, he stormed at me, as the saying is,
stormed and stormed and stormed! It was not a matter of life but
rather of death, as the saying is. 'Albanians!' and 'devils!'
and 'To Siberia!'" said Berg with a sagacious smile. "I
knew I was in the right so I kept silent; was not that best, Count?...
'Hey, are you dumb?' he shouted. Still I remained silent. And
what do you think, Count? The next day it was not even mentioned
in the Orders of the Day. That's what keeping one's head means.
That's the way, Count," said Berg, lighting his pipe and
emitting rings of smoke.
"Yes, that was fine," said Rostov, smiling.
But Boris noticed that he was preparing to make fun of Berg,
and skillfully changed the subject. He asked him to tell them
how and where he got his wound. This pleased Rostov and he began
talking about it, and as he went on became more and more animated.
He told them of his Schon Grabern affair, just as those who have
taken part in a battle generally do describe it, that is, as they
would like it to have been, as they have heard it described by
others, and as sounds well, but not at all as it really was. Rostov
was a truthful young man and would on no account have told a deliberate
lie. He began his story meaning to tell everything just as it
happened, but imperceptibly, involuntarily, and inevitably he
lapsed into falsehood. If he had told the truth to his hearers-
who like himself had often heard stories of attacks and had formed
a definite idea of what an attack was and were expecting to hear
just such a story- they would either not have believed him or,
still worse, would have thought that Rostov was himself to blame
since what generally happens to the narrators of cavalry attacks
had not happened to him. He could not tell them simply that everyone
went at a trot and that he fell off his horse and sprained his
arm and then ran as hard as he could from a Frenchman into the
wood. Besides, to tell everything as it really happened, it would
have been necessary to make an effort of will to tell only what
happened. It is very difficult to tell the truth, and young people
are rarely capable of it. His hearers expected a story of how
beside himself and all aflame with excitement, he had flown like
a storm at the square, cut his way in, slashed right and left,
how his saber had tasted flesh and he had fallen exhausted, and
so on. And so he told them all that.
In the middle of his story, just as he was saying: "You
cannot imagine what a strange frenzy one experiences during an
attack," Prince Andrew, whom Boris was expecting, entered
the room. Prince Andrew, who liked to help young men, was flattered
by being asked for his assistance and being well disposed toward
Boris, who had managed to please him the day before, he wished
to do what the young man wanted. Having been sent with papers
from Kutuzov to the Tsarevich, he looked in on Boris, hoping to
find him alone. When he came in and saw an hussar of the line
recounting his military exploits (Prince Andrew could not endure
that sort of man), he gave Boris a pleasant smile, frowned as
with half-closed eyes he looked at Rostov, bowed slightly and
wearily, and sat down languidly on the sofa: he felt it unpleasant
to have dropped in on bad company. Rostov flushed up on noticing
this, but he did not care, this was a mere stranger. Glancing,
however, at Boris, he saw that he too seemed ashamed of the hussar
of the line.
In spite of Prince Andrew's disagreeable, ironical tone, in
spite of the contempt with which Rostov, from his fighting army
point of view, regarded all these little adjutants on the staff
of whom the newcomer was evidently one, Rostov felt confused,
blushed, and became silent. Boris inquired what news there might
be on the staff, and what, without indiscretion, one might ask
about our plans.
"We shall probably advance," replied Bolkonski,
evidently reluctant to say more in the presence of a stranger.
Berg took the opportunity to ask, with great politeness, whether,
as was rumored, the allowance of forage money to captains of companies
would be doubled. To this Prince Andrew answered with a smile
that he could give no opinion on such an important government
order, and Berg laughed gaily.
"As to your business," Prince Andrew continued,
addressing Boris, "we will talk of it later" (and he
looked round at Rostov). "Come to me after the review and
we will do what is possible."
And, having glanced round the room, Prince Andrew turned to
Rostov, whose state of unconquerable childish embarrassment now
changing to anger he did not condescend to notice, and said: "I
think you were talking of the Schon Grabern affair? Were you there?"
"I was there," said Rostov angrily, as if intending
to insult the aide-de-camp.
Bolkonski noticed the hussar's state of mind, and it amused
him. With a slightly contemptuous smile, he said: "Yes, there
are many stories now told about that affair!"
"Yes, stories!" repeated Rostov loudly, looking
with eyes suddenly grown furious, now at Boris, now at Bolkonski.
"Yes, many stories! But our stories are the stories of men
who have been under the enemy's fire! Our stories have some weight,
not like the stories of those fellows on the staff who get rewards
without doing anything!"
"Of whom you imagine me to be one?" said Prince
Andrew, with a quiet and particularly amiable smile.
A strange feeling of exasperation and yet of respect for this
man's self-possession mingled at that moment in Rostov's soul.
"I am not talking about you," he said, "I don't
know you and, frankly, I don't want to. I am speaking of the staff
in general."
"And I will tell you this," Prince Andrew interrupted
in a tone of quiet authority, "you wish to insult me, and
I am ready to agree with you that it would be very easy to do
so if you haven't sufficient self-respect, but admit that the
time and place are very badly chosen. In a day or two we shall
all have to take part in a greater and more serious duel, and
besides, Drubetskoy, who says he is an old friend of yours, is
not at all to blame that my face has the misfortune to displease
you. However," he added rising, "you know my name and
where to find me, but don't forget that I do not regard either
myself or you as having been at all insulted, and as a man older
than you, my advice is to let the matter drop. Well then, on Friday
after the review I shall expect you, Drubetskoy. Au revoir!"
exclaimed Prince Andrew, and with a bow to them both he went out.
Only when Prince Andrew was gone did Rostov think of what
he ought to have said. And he was still more angry at having omitted
to say it. He ordered his horse at once and, coldly taking leave
of Boris, rode home. Should he go to headquarters next day and
challenge that affected adjutant, or really let the matter drop,
was the question that worried him all the way. He thought angrily
of the pleasure he would have at seeing the fright of that small
and frail but proud man when covered by his pistol, and then he
felt with surprise that of all the men he knew there was none
he would so much like to have for a friend as that very adjutant
whom he so hated.
|
