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 fête,
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.