War and Peace: Original Version

“I do not care. What a good light it shows us in to our allies, how very tactful it is! That officer who stole a cow for his company is no worse than your Zherkov. He, at least, needed that cow.”

“Just as you wish, brother, it’s all very pitiful, but it’s funny nonetheless. If only you …”

“There’s nothing funny about it. Forty thousand men have been killed and our ally’s army has been destroyed, and you joke about it,” he said in French, as though reinforcing his opinion. “It is forgivable for a contemptible little fellow like this gentleman whom you have made your friend, but not for you, not for you,” said Prince Andrei in Russian. He had uttered “little fellow” with a French accent, on noticing Zherkov enter the room. He waited to see if the cornet would make any reply. But the cornet said nothing; he picked up his cap, winked at Nesvitsky and went out again.

“Come for dinner,” shouted Nesvitsky. Prince Andrei had been watching the cornet intently and, when he had gone, he sat down at his table.

“I have been wanting to say something for a long time,” he said to Nesvitsky, who was now looking at Prince Andrei with a smile in his eyes, as though for him any amusement was agreeable, and now he was rather enjoying listening to the sound of Prince Andrei’s voice and what he was saying.

“I have wanted to say for a long time that it is your passion to be familiar with everyone, feed absolutely everyone and buy drink indiscriminately. This is all very fine, and even though I live with you, I do not find it awkward, because I know how to make these gentlemen aware of their place. And I am speaking not for myself, but for you. You can joke with me. We understand each other and we know the limits to jokes, but you should not be on such familiar terms with this Zherkov. His only goal is to be noticed in some way, to win some little cross for himself, and for you to give him food and drink for free; he sees nothing beyond that and is prepared to amuse you in any way necessary, without the slightest awareness of the significance of his own jokes, but you must not do this.”

“Oh, come now, he’s a fine fellow,” interceded Nesvitsky, “a fine fellow.”

“It is possible to give these Zherkovs drink after dinner and get them to perform their comedies, that I can understand, but no more that that.”

“That’s enough, now, brother, this is really too awkward … Well, all right, I won’t do it again, just don’t say another word,” Nesvitsky cried, laughing and leaping up from the divan. He embraced Prince Andrei and kissed him. Prince Andrei smiled like a teacher smiling at a fawning pupil.

“It makes me sick to the stomach when these Zherkovs worm their way into your intimate friendship. He wishes to be elevated and cleansed through his closeness with you, but he will not be cleansed, he will only besmirch you.”

V

The Pavlograd Hussars Regiment was stationed two miles from Braunau. The squadron in which Nikolai Rostov was serving as a cadet was located in the German village of Salzenek. The squadron commander, Captain Denisov, known to the entire cavalry division by the name of Vaska Denisov, had been allocated the best quarters in the village. Cadet Rostov had been living with the squadron commander since he overtook the regiment in Poland.

On the 8th of October, the same day when, at general headquarters, everyone was spurred into action by the news of Mack’s defeat, life at the squadron headquarters continued calmly in the same way as usual. Denisov, who had spent the entire night playing cards, was still asleep when Rostov returned on horseback early in the morning. In breeches and a hussar’s jacket, Rostov rode up to the porch and, giving his horse a pat, flung one leg over its back with a fluid, youthful movement, standing in the stirrup for a moment, as though not wishing to be parted from his horse, before finally jumping down and turning his flushed, sunburnt face with its young growth of moustache to call to his orderly.

“Ah, Bondarenko, my good friend,” he said to the hussar who came dashing headlong to his horse. “Walk him for me, dear friend,” he said with that fraternal, jolly affection with which good-hearted young men address everybody when they are happy.

“Yes, your excellency,” replied the Ukrainian, tossing his head merrily.

“Take care now, a good walk!”

Another hussar also dashed up to the horse, but Bondarenko had already brought the reins of the snaffle-bridle over the horse’s head. It was obvious that the cadet tipped well and it was profitable to do him a service. Rostov ran his hand over the horse’s neck, then its rump, and stood still by the porch.

“Glorious,” he said to himself, smiling and holding his sabre down as he ran up the porch and clicked his heels and spurs together, as they do in the mazurka. The German landlord, in a quilted jacket and cap, holding the fork he was using for mucking out, glanced out of the cowshed. The German’s face suddenly brightened when he saw Rostov. He smiled cheerfully and winked: “Schön gut Morgen! Fine, good morning!” he repeated, evidently taking pleasure in the young man’s greeting.

“Already at work,” said Nikolai, still with the same joyful, fraternal smile, which never left his animated face. “Hurrah for the Austrians! Hurrah for the Russians! Hurrah for Emperor Alexander!” he said to the German, repeating the words frequently spoken by the German landlord. The German laughed, and coming all the way out of the cowshed, he pulled off his cap, waving it over his head, and shouted:

“And hurrah for all the world!”

Just like the German, Rostov waved his forage cap over his head and shouted with a laugh: “And hurrah for all the world!” Although neither of them – not the German, who was mucking out his cowshed, nor Nikolai, who had taken a platoon to fetch hay – had any special reason for merriment, these two men looked at each other in transports of happiness and brotherly love, shook their heads as a sign of their mutual love and went their separate ways with a smile, the German back into the cowshed and Nikolai into the hut that he and Denisov occupied.

The previous day the officers of this squadron had gathered at the quarters of the captain of the fourth squadron in a different village and spent the whole night playing cards. Rostov had been there, but he had left early. For all his desire to be the complete hussar and comrade, he could not drink more than a glass of wine without feeling ill, and he fell asleep at cards. He had too much money, and did not know what to do with it, so he could not understand the pleasure of winning. Every time he placed a stake on the advice of the officers, he won money that he did not need and observed how disagreeable this was for the man whose money it was, but he was unable to help him. Even though the squadron commander had never reprimanded him in connection with his duties, Rostov had decided for himself that in military service the most important thing was to be conscientious in performing one’s duty, and he had informed all the officers that he would regard himself as worthless trash if he ever permitted himself to skip his turn for a duty assignment or a mission. Subsequently he discovered for himself that the duties of serving as a non-commissioned officer, which no one had forced him to undertake, were onerous, but he remembered the incautious pledge that he had given and did not betray it. Having been given, as part of his duties as a non-commissioned officer, the order of the day by the sergeant-major the previous evening, he had accordingly given orders to be woken before dawn so as to take a platoon out to get hay. While Denisov was still sleeping, Rostov had already had a long talk with the hussars, taken a good look at a German girl, the daughter of the schoolteacher in Salzenek, started to feel hungry and arrived back in that happy state of mind in which all people are kind, lovable and agreeable. Quietly jingling his soldier’s spurs, he walked backwards and forwards across the squeaking floor, glancing at Denisov sleeping with his head tucked under the blanket. He wanted to talk. Denisov coughed and turned over. Rostov went up to him and tugged on the blanket.

“Time to get up, Denisov! It’s time!” he shouted.

Out from under the blanket popped a dark, hirsute, shaggy head with red cheeks and glittering pitch-black eyes.

“Time!” shouted Denisov. “What time? Time to get the hell out of this … kingdom of salami. Such bad luck! Such bad luck! It started the moment you left. I was cleaned wight out yesterday, bwother, like a weal son of a bitch! Hey there, some tea!”

Denisov leapt up on brown naked legs that were covered with black hairs as dense as a monkey’s, and he screwed up his face, as if smiling, to display short, strong teeth, while with both hands he tousled his thick black hair and moustache, which were as curly and tangled as a forest. It was clear from Denisov’s first words that he was feeling down-at-heart, that his body was weakened by wine and sleepless nights, and his cheery manner was not an expression of his feelings, but merely a habit.

“What devil made me go to that wat’s place” (the officer was nicknamed “the rat”) said Denisov, rubbing his forehead and face with both hands. “Can you believe that yesterday, after you left, he didn’t give me a single card, not one, not even one card,” Denisov went on, raising his voice to a shout and turning completely crimson in his excitement.

Denisov was one of those people who had his blood let regularly twice a year and who were called hot-headed.

“Now, that’s enough, it’s all over now,” said Rostov, noticing that Denisov was about to fly into a passion at the mere memory of his bad luck. “Let’s have some tea instead.”

It was clear that Rostov had not yet grown accustomed to his position and he found it pleasant to speak so familiarly to such an old person. But Denisov was already getting carried away, his eyes turned bloodshot, he took the lighted pipe held out to him, squeezed it in his fist, struck it against the floor, scattering sparks, and carried on shouting.

“No, it’s such devilish bad luck I have – he gives you the singles, then beats you on the doubles, gives you the singles, then beats you on the doubles.”

He scattered sparks and broke the pipe, tossed it away and threatened the orderly with his hand. But by the time Rostov began speaking a moment later, the fit of fury had already passed.

“And I had such a glorious ride. We went past that park, where the teacher’s daughter is, remember?” said Rostov, blushing and smiling.

“That’s young blood for you,” said Denisov, speaking calmly now, grabbing the cadet’s hand and shaking it. “The youth is blushing, it’s quite wepulsive …”

“I saw her again …”

“Wight then, brother, clearly I’ll have to set about the fair sex – I’ve no money, that’s enough gambling for me. Nikita, my fwiend, give me my purse,” he said to the orderly whom he had almost struck. “Right then. What a blockhead, damn it! Where’s that you’re wummaging? Under the pillow! Wight, thank you, dear fellow,” he said, taking the purse and tipping several gold coins out on to the table. “Squadwon money, fowage money, it’s all here,” he said. “There must be forty-five of fowage money alone. Ah no, why bother counting! It won’t fix me up.”

He pushed the gold coins aside.

“Never mind, take some from me,” said Rostov.

“If they don’t bwing the pay on Sunday, things’ll be weally bad,” said Denisov, not answering him.

“Well take some from me,” said Rostov, blushing in the way that young men always do when it is a matter of money. The vague thought flashed through his mind that Denisov was already in his debt, together with the thought that Denisov was insulting him by not accepting his offer.

Denisov’s face fell and became sad.

“I tell you what! You take Bedouin fwom me,” he said seriously, after thinking for a moment. “I paid one and a half thousand for him in Russia myself, I’ll let you have him for the same price. Nothing is sacred except the sabre. Take him! Let’s shake hands on it …”

“I won’t, not for anything. The finest horse in the regiment,” said Rostov, blushing furiously again.

Bedouin really was a fine horse, and Rostov would have very much liked to own him, but he felt ashamed to admit it to Denisov. He felt as if he were to blame for having money. Denisov fell silent and again began tousling his hair thoughtfully.

“Hey, who’s there?” he said, turning towards the door on hearing the footfalls of thick boots with jingling spurs and a short, respectful cough.

“The sergeant-major,” said Nikita. Denisov frowned even more darkly.

“That’s weally bad,” he said. “Wostov, my dear fellow, count up how much is left there and chuck the purse under my pillow,” he said, going out to the sergeant-major.

Rostov, already imagining himself having bought Bedouin and riding him as a cornet at the rear of the squadron, began counting the money, mechanically setting the old and new gold coins apart in equal heaps (there were seven old and sixteen new ones).

“Ah! Telyanin! Gweetings! They cleaned me out yesterday,” Denisov’s sad voice said in the next room.

“Where? At Bykov the rat’s place? I knew it,” said another thin voice, and then Lieutenant Telyanin, a foppish little officer from the same squadron, entered the room.