Читать книгу War and Peace: Original Version - Лев Толстой, Leo Tolstoy, Liev N. Tolstói - Страница 53

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.

Rostov tossed the purse under the pillow and shook the moist little hand extended towards him. Before the campaign, Telyanin had for some reason or other been transferred from the Guards. He was disliked in the squadron for his stand-offish manner. Rostov had bought his horse from him.

“Well now, young cavalryman, how’s my Grachik serving you?” he asked. The lieutenant never looked into the eyes of the person with whom he was talking; his eyes constantly shifted about from one object to another. “I saw you ride past today …”

“Well enough, a sound mount,” Rostov replied in the serious tone of an experienced cavalryman, even though the horse that he had bought for seven hundred roubles had bad legs and was not worth half that price. “He’s started limping a bit on his left foreleg …” he added.

“Is the hoof split? That’s all right. I’ll teach you how, I’ll show you what kind of brace to put on.”

Telyanin’s eyes never settled, despite the fact that his entire small figure had assumed an indolently nonchalant pose and the tone of his speech was slightly superior and patronising.

“Would you like some tea? Yes, please do show me how to do that brace,” said Rostov.

“I’ll show you, I’ll show you, it’s no secret. And you’ll thank me for that horse.”

“I’ll order the horse to be led round then.” And Rostov went out to have it brought.

Out in the lobby Denisov, wearing a short padded kaftan, was sitting hunched over his pipe on the doorstep in front of the sergeant-major, who was reporting something.

Catching sight of Rostov, Denisov screwed up his face and, pointing back over his shoulder with his thumb into the room that Telyanin had entered, he frowned and shook his head in disgust.

“Oh, I don’t like that fine fellow,” he said, unembarrassed by the presence of the sergeant-major.

Rostov shrugged, as if to say: “Neither do I, but what can you do?” and, after giving his instructions, he went back to Telyanin.

Telyanin was sitting in the same indolent pose in which Rostov had left him, rubbing his small white hands.

“What a station – not a single house or a single woman since we left Poland,” said Telyanin, standing up and glancing casually around himself. “Well then, did you tell them to bring the horse?” he added.

“Yes.”

“Let’s go then.”

“But what about tea?”

“No, I don’t want any. I only called in to ask Denisov about yesterday’s order. Have you received it, Denisov?”

“Not yet. Where are you going?”

“I want to teach this young man how to shoe a horse,” said Telyanin.

They went out through the porch and into the stable. The lieutenant showed him how to put on the brace and went back to his quarters.

When Rostov returned there was vodka and ham standing on the table and Denisov, now dressed, was walking backwards and forwards across the room with rapid strides. He looked into Rostov’s face sombrely.

“It’s not often I don’t like someone,” said Denisov, “but I find that Telyanin as repulsive as milk with sugar. He swindled you with that Grachik of his, that’s for sure. Let’s go to the stable. Take Bedouin anyway, cash in hand on the nail, and two bottles of champagne.”

Rostov blushed fiercely again, like a girl.

“No, please, Denisov … I won’t take the horse, not for anything. If you won’t take money as a comrade, you’ll offend me. Really. I have money.”

Denisov frowned, turned away and began tousling his hair. He was clearly displeased by this.

“Well, have it your way!”

Rostov made to take out his money.

“Later, later, I still have some. Chuchela, send in the sergeant-major,” Denisov shouted to Nikita, “I have to pay him back some money.”

He went to the bed to get the purse from under the pillow.

“Where did you put it?”

“Under the bottom pillow.”

“I’m looking under the bottom pillow.”

Denisov threw both pillows on to the floor. The purse was not there.

“That’s incredible!”

“Wait, perhaps you might have dropped it,” said Rostov, picking up the pillows by turn and shaking them. He took off the blanket and shook it out. The purse was not there.

“Could I really have forgotten? No, I even had a thought that you kept your treasure under your head,” said Rostov. “I put the purse here. Where is it?” he said, turning to the servant.

“I haven’t been in here. It ought to be where you left it.”

“But it’s not …”

“You’re always throwing things down somewhere and then forgetting. Look in your pockets.”

“No, I wouldn’t have had that thought about the treasure,” said Rostov, “I remember putting it there.”

Nikita rummaged through the entire bed, looking under it, under the table, rummaging through the whole room, but the purse was not there. Denisov, having turned out his own pockets, followed Nikita’s movements without speaking, and when Nikita shrugged and spread his arms in amazement, saying it was not in his pocket, he gave Rostov a glance.

“Rostov, you’re playing a schoolboy …”

He didn’t finish. Rostov was standing there with both hands in his pockets and his head bowed. Sensing Denisov’s gaze on him, he looked up and instantly lowered his eyes again. At that instant all of his blood, which had been locked somewhere below his throat, rushed up into his face and eyes. The young man was clearly unable to catch his breath. Denisov hastily turned away, winced and began tousling his hair.

“And there was no one in the room, apart from the lieutenant and you yourself. It’s in here somewhere.”

“Right, you devil’s puppet, get cracking, look for it,” Denisov suddenly shouted, turning crimson and rushing at the orderly with a threatening gesture. “I’ll have that purse, or I’ll whip you!”

Gasping for breath and avoiding looking at Denisov, Rostov began buttoning up his jacket. He fastened on his sabre and put on his forage cap.

“Come on, you devil. I tell you, find me that purse,” shouted Denisov, senselessly shaking the orderly by the shoulders and pushing him against the wall.

“Denisov, leave him. I’ll be back straightaway,” said Rostov, walking to the door without looking up.

“Rostov! Rostov!” Denisov shouted so hard that the veins on his neck and forehead swelled up like ropes. “I tell you, you’ve gone crazy, I won’t allow it.” And Denisov grabbed Rostov by the arm. “The purse is here, I’ll flay all the orderlies, and it will be here.”

“But I know where the purse is,” Rostov replied in a trembling voice. They looked each other in the eye.

“But I’m telling you, don’t do this,” Denisov shouted at the top of his voice, lunging at the cadet in order to hold him back. “I tell you, to hell with that money! This cannot be, I won’t allow it. It’s lost, so to hell with it …” But despite the resolute sense of his words, the captain’s hirsute face now expressed indecision and fear. Rostov pulled his arm free and fixed his eyes directly and firmly on Denisov with as much malice as if he were his greatest enemy.

“Do you understand what you’re saying?” he said in a trembling voice. “Apart from me, there was no one in the room. That means, if not …”

He couldn’t finish what he was saying and ran out of the room.

“Ah, to hell with you and everybody,” were the last words that Rostov heard.

He reached Telyanin’s quarters.

“The master’s not at home, he’s gone to staff headquarters,” Telyanin’s orderly told him. “Why, has something happened?” the orderly added, surprised at the cadet’s distraught expression.

“No, nothing.”

“You only just missed him,” said the orderly.

The staff building was located three versts from Salzenek. Without returning to base, Rostov took his horse and rode to headquarters.

In the village occupied by the headquarters there was an inn that was frequented by the officers.

Rostov arrived at the inn and he saw Telyanin’s horse by the porch.

The lieutenant was sitting in the second room of the inn, with a dish of sausages and a bottle in front of him.

“Ah, you’ve called in too, young man,” he said, smiling and raising his eyebrows very high.

“Yes,” said Rostov, as though it cost him a great effort to pronounce the word, and sat at the next table.

Neither of them said anything, there was no one else in the room and all that could be heard were the sounds of the knife against the plate and the lieutenant’s chomping. When Telyanin finished his breakfast he took a double purse out of his pocket, parted the rings with his little white fingers curved upwards, took out a gold coin and, raising his eyebrows slightly, handed the money to the servant.

“Be quick, if you please,” he said.

The gold coin was new. Rostov stood up and approached Telyanin.

“Permit me to take a look at your purse,” he said in a low, barely audible voice.

With his eyes shifting restlessly, but his eyebrows still raised, Telyanin held out the purse.

“It’s a souvenir from a little Polish girl … yes …” he said and suddenly turned pale. “Take a look, young man,” he added.

Rostov took hold of the purse and looked at it and the money that was in it, and at Telyanin. The lieutenant was glancing around himself in his habitual manner and he seemed suddenly to have become very jolly.

“When we’re in Vienna, I’ll get rid of it all there, but there’s nothing to do with it now in these wretched little towns,” he said. “Right, come on young man, I’ll be going.”

Rostov said nothing.

“Well, are you buying the horse from Denisov? A fine steed,” Telyanin continued. “Give it back now.” He held out his hand and took hold of the purse. Rostov let go of it. Telyanin took the purse and began lowering it into the pocket of his breeches, and his eyebrows rose carelessly, and his lips parted slightly, as if he were saying: “Yes, I’m putting my purse in my pocket, and it’s nobody’s business but mine.”

“Well then, young man?” he asked with a sigh and looked into Rostov’s eyes from under his raised eyebrows. A strange light leapt with the speed of an electric spark from Telyanin’s eyes to Rostov’s eyes and back, back and forth, back and forth, all in a single instant.

“Come here,” said Rostov, grabbing Telyanin by the arm. He pulled him almost over to the window. “You are a thief!” he whispered into his ear.

“What? What? How dare you? What?” But these words sounded like a pitiful, desperate cry appealing for forgiveness. As soon as Rostov heard the sound of that voice, a heavy stone of doubt fell from his heart. He felt joy and at the same moment he felt so sorry for the miserable man standing before him that tears sprang to his eyes.

“There are people here, God knows what they might think,” Telyanin muttered, snatching up his cap and walking towards a small empty room. “Explain yourself, what’s wrong with you?”

When they entered the little room, Telyanin looked pale, grey and short, as though he had lost weight after a long illness.

“Just now you stole the purse from under Denisov’s pillow,” said Rostov, emphasising each word. Telyanin was on the point of saying something. “I know this, I shall prove it.”

“I …”

The grey face had lost all of its attractiveness now, every muscle in it began trembling, the eyes shifted about in a different way from before, somewhere low down, not rising to look at the cadet’s face, and Rostov could hear sobbing.

“Count! Do not ruin … a young man … Here is the miserable … money, take it …” He tossed it on to a table. “I have an old father, a mother!”

Rostov took the money, avoiding Telyanin’s eyes and, without saying a word, walked out of the room. But at the door he stopped and turned back.

“My God,” he said with tears in his eyes, “how could you do it?”

“Count,” said Telyanin imploringly, approaching the cadet.

“Don’t touch me,” said Rostov, moving away from him. “If you need this money, take it.” He tossed the purse to him. “Don’t touch me, don’t touch me!” And Rostov ran out of the inn, scarcely able to conceal his tears.

That evening there was a lively discussion between the squadron’s officers in Denisov’s quarters.

“And I tell you, Rostov, that you should apologise to the regimental commander,” said a tall staff-captain with greying hair, immense moustaches and a wrinkled face with large features, addressing a crimson-faced, agitated Rostov. Staff-Captain Kiersten had twice been reduced to the ranks on a matter of honour and twice won promotion again. A man who did not believe in God would have been less odd in the regiment than a man who did not respect Staff-Captain Kiersten.

“I will not permit anyone to say that I am a liar!” exclaimed Rostov. “He told me that I was lying, and I told him that he was lying. That is the way it will remain. He can assign me duty every day and place me under arrest, but no one will make me apologise, because if he, as the regimental commander, regards it as unworthy of him to give me satisfaction, then …”

“Just you hang on, old man, you listen to me,” the staff-captain interrupted in his deep bass voice, calmly stroking his long moustaches. “In the presence of other officers you told the regimental commander that an officer stole.”

“I cannot be a diplomat, I do not know how, and I am not to blame that the conversation took place in the presence of other officers. That was why I went into the hussars, I thought there was no need for such niceties here, and he told me that I was lying … then let him give me satisfaction …”

“That’s all very well, no one thinks that you’re a coward, that’s not the point. Ask Denisov, does it make any sense for a cadet to demand satisfaction from the regimental commander?”

Denisov was listening to the conversation with a morose air, biting on his moustache and clearly not wishing to join in. He replied to the staff-captain’s question with a shake of his head.

“I told you,” he said, addressing the staff officer, “judge for yourself, as best you can. All I know is that if I hadn’t listened to you and I’d given this petty thief’s head a good battewing a long time ago (I couldn’t bear the sight of him from the vewy beginning), then nothing would have happened, there’d be none of this shameful business.”

“Yes, but what’s done is done,” the staff-captain continued. “You tell the regimental commander about this filthy trick in the presence of other officers. Bogdanich” (Bogdanich was what they called the regimental commander) “put you in your place, you said a lot of stupid things to him and you ought to apologise.”

“Not for anything!” cried Rostov.

“I didn’t expect this of you,” the staff-captain said seriously and sternly. “You don’t want to apologise, but it’s not only him you’ve offended, old man, it’s the whole regiment, all of us, you’ve offended everyone. That’s the way of it: if only you’d thought about it and taken some advice on how to deal with this business, but you blurted it straight out, and in the presence of officers. What can the regimental commander do now? Does he have to hand an officer over to trial and besmirch the entire regiment? Disgrace the whole regiment because of a single scoundrel? Is that what you think? It’s not what we think. And Bogdanich did right to tell you that you were lying. It’s not nice, but what’s to be done, old man, you jumped in with both feet. And now that they want to hush the business up, out of some snobbish ideas of your own, you don’t want to apologise, you want to tell the whole story. You’re offended because you’ll be on duty detail, but what’s it to you to apologise to an old and honest officer? Whatever Bogdanich may be like, he’s still an honest and brave old colonel, what if you are offended, don’t you mind besmirching the regiment?” The staff-captain’s voice was beginning to tremble. “You’ve hardly even been in the regiment two minutes, old man, here today and tomorrow you’ve moved somewhere as a little adjutant, you don’t give a damn that people will say there are thieves among the Pavlogradsk officers! But we do care. Isn’t that right, Denisov? We do care?”

“Yes, brother, I’d let them chop off my right hand, if only this business had never happened,” said Denisov, banging his fist on the table.

“Your snobbish ideas mean a lot to you, you don’t want to apologise,” the staff-captain continued, “but we old men have grown up in the regiment and, God willing, we’ll die in it, so the honour of the regiment means a lot to us, and Bogdanich knows it. Oh, it means such a lot, old man! And this is not right, it’s not right. You can take offence if you like, but I always tell the honest truth. It’s not right.”

And the staff-captain stood up and turned away from Rostov.

“It’s true, damn it!” shouted Denisov, beginning to get worked up and glancing repeatedly at Rostov. “Come on, Wostov! Come on, Wostov! To hell with false shame, come on!”

Rostov, turning red and white by turns, looked first at one officer, then at the other.

“No, gentlemen, no … you, don’t think … I do understand, you’re wrong to think that about me … I … for myself … for the honour of the regiment … but what good is …? I’ll prove it to you in action, and for me the honour of the standard … all right, all the same, it’s true, I’m at fault!” There were tears in his eyes. “I’m at fault, in every way! Well, what else do you want?”

“That’s the way, count,” cried the staff-captain, turning round and slapping him on the shoulder with a large hand.

“Didn’t I tell you?” shouted Denisov, “devil take it, but he’s a fine chap.”

“It’s the best way, count,” repeated the staff-captain, as if rewarding him for his admission by beginning to use his title. “Yes sir, go and apologise, your excellency, do.”

“Gentlemen, I will do anything, no one will hear a single word from me,” Rostov said in an imploring voice, “but I can’t apologise, honest to God I can’t, no matter what! How am I going to apologise, like a little child asking for forgiveness?”

Denisov laughed.

“It’ll be worse for you, Bogdanich never forgives, you’ll pay for your stubbornness.”

“By God, it’s not stubbornness! I can’t describe to you the kind of feeling it is, I can’t …”

“Well, as you wish,” said the staff-captain. “Tell me now, where’s that rogue got to?” he asked Denisov.

“He’s claiming to be sick and the instwuction’s been given to dismiss him from the wegiment tomorrow. Oh, if he just cwosses my path,” said Denisov, “I’ll squash him like a fly.”

“It’s a sickness, there’s no other way to explain it,” said the staff-captain.

“Maybe it’s an illness, maybe not, but I’d gladly shoot him,” Denisov shouted in a bloodthirsty voice.

Zherkov came into the room.

“What are you doing here?” the officers all asked the new arrival.

“Action, gentlemen. Mack has surrendered with his entire army and all.”

“You’re lying!”

“I’ve seen him myself.”

“What you saw Mack, alive? With arms and legs?”

“Action! Action! Give him a bottle for news like that. How do you come to be here?”

“They’ve sent me back to the regiment again, because of that devil Mack. An Austrian general complained. I congratulated him on Mack’s arrival. What’s wrong with you, Rostov, you look like you’re straight out of the bathhouse.”

“We’ve got a weal mess going on here, brother, it’s the second day now.”

The regimental adjutant came in and confirmed the news brought by Zherkov. The order was to advance the next day.

“Action, gentlemen.”

“Well, thank God for that. We’ve been sitting here too long.”