He waited for the cornet to make some reply. But the cornet turned and left the corridor.
IV
The Pavlogradsky hussar regiment was stationed two miles from Braunau. The squadron in which Nikolai Rostov served as a junker had settled in the German village of Salzeneck. The squadron commander, Captain Denisov, known to the whole cavalry division as Vaska Denisov, was assigned the best quarters in the village. Junker Rostov had been living with the squadron commander ever since he caught up with his regiment in Poland.
On October 8th, the day when at headquarters all were brought to their feet by the news of Mack’s defeat, in the squadron staff life quietly went on as before. Denisov, who had spent the whole night playing cards, was still not home when Rostov, on horseback, came back from foraging early in the morning. Rostov, in his junker’s uniform, rode up to the porch, nudged his horse around, swung his leg over him in a supple, youthful movement, stood in the stirrup as if not wishing to part with his horse, finally jumped down, and shouted for the orderly.
“Ah, Bondarenko, friend of my heart,” he said to the hussar who came rushing for his horse. “Give him a cooling down, my friend,” he said with that merry brotherly tenderness with which all fine young men treat everyone when they are happy.
“Yes, Your Excellency,” the Ukrainian replied, merrily shaking his head.
“See that you give him a good cooling down!”
Another hussar also rushed to the horse, but Bondarenko had already thrown the reins over the horse’s head. One could see that the junker gave good tips and it was profitable to be of service to him. Rostov stroked the horse’s neck, then his croup, and stopped on the porch.
“Very nice! What a horse he’ll be!” he said to himself and, smiling and holding his saber, ran up the steps, his spurs jingling. The German landlord, in a vest and a cap, holding the fork he was using to clear away dung, peeked out of the cowshed. As soon as he saw Rostov, the German’s face suddenly brightened. He smiled merrily and winked: “Schön, gut Morgen! Schön, gut Morgen!”*182 he repeated, obviously taking pleasure in greeting the young man.
“Schon fleissig!”†183 said Rostov, still with the same joyful, brotherly smile, which never left his animated face. “Hoch Oestreicher! Hoch Russen! Kaiser Alexander hoch!”‡184 he addressed the German, repeating words often spoken by the landlord.
The German laughed, came all the way out of the cowshed door, pulled off his cap, and, waving it above his head, cried:
“Und die ganze Welt hoch!”§185
Rostov himself, like the German, waved his peaked cap above his head and, laughing, shouted: “Und vivat die ganze Welt!” Though there was no particular reason for rejoicing either for the German, who was cleaning his cowshed, or for Rostov, who had gone for hay with his section, the two men looked at each other with happy delight and brotherly love, shook their heads as a sign of mutual love, and, smiling, went their way—the German to the cowshed, and Rostov to the cottage he occupied with Denisov.
“How’s the master?” he asked Lavrushka, Denisov’s lackey, a rogue known to the whole regiment.
“Hasn’t been back since evening. Must’ve lost,” replied Lavrushka. “I know for sure, if he wins, he comes early so as to boast, but if he stays away till morning, it means he blew it—and he’ll come angry. Shall I serve coffee?”
“Go on, go on.”
Ten minutes later Lavrushka brought coffee.
“He’s coming,” he said. “Now for trouble.”
Rostov looked out the window and saw Denisov coming home. Denisov was a small man with a red face, shining black eyes, and disheveled black mustaches and hair. He was wearing an unbuttoned dolman, wide pleated trousers ballooning over his boots, and a crumpled hussar cap perched on the back of his head. He was approaching the porch gloomily, his head hanging.
“Lavrushka,” he shouted loudly and crossly. “Well, take it off, blockhead!”
“I am taking it off,” Lavrushka’s voice replied.
“Ah! you’re up already,” said Denisov, going into the room.
“Long ago,” said Rostov. “I already went for hay and saw Fräulein Mathilde.”
“Ah, really! And I blew everything last night, brother, like a son of a bitch!” shouted Denisov, swallowing his r’s. “Such bad luck! Such bad luck!…As soon as you left, it started. Hey, tea!”
Denisov, wincing as if he was smiling and baring his short, strong teeth, began tousling his forest-thick, tangled, bushy black hair with both short-fingered hands.
“The devil prompted me to go to that rat” (the officer’s nickname was “the Rat”), he said, rubbing his forehead and face with both hands. “Can you imagine, not a single good card, not one.”
Denisov took the lighted pipe served to him, clutched it in his fist, banged it on the floor, spraying sparks, and went on shouting:
“He gives you the simple, and beats it with the paroli; gives you the simple, and beats it with the paroli.”
He spilled the fire, smashed the pipe, and threw it away. Then he paused and suddenly glanced merrily at Rostov with his shining black eyes.
“If only there were some women. But here, except for drinking, there’s nothing to do. If only we’d start fighting soon…Hey, who’s there?” he turned to the door, hearing the tread of heavy boots with jingling spurs come to a stop and then a respectful cough.
“The sergeant major!” said Lavrushka.
Denisov winced still more.
“Rotten luck,” he said, throwing down a purse with a few gold pieces. “Rostov, dear heart, count up what’s left and put it under the pillow,” he said and went out to the sergeant major.
Rostov took the money and, mechanically sorting the old and new coins into separate piles, began counting it.
“Ah! Telyanin! Greetings! I blew everything last night,” Denisov’s voice came from the other room.
“Where? At Bykov’s, at the Rat’s?…I knew it,” said a high-pitched voice, and after that Lieutenant Telyanin, a small officer from the same squadron, came in.
Rostov threw the purse under the pillow and shook the small, moist hand that was held out to him. Telyanin had for some reason been transferred from the guards just before the campaign. He behaved very well in the regiment; but he was not liked, and Rostov especially could neither overcome nor conceal his causeless loathing for the man.
“Well, so, young cavalryman, how’s my Little Rook serving you?” he asked. (Little Rook was a saddle horse, recently broken, that Telyanin had sold to Rostov.)
The lieutenant never looked the person he was talking to in the eye; his eyes constantly shifted from one object to another.
“I saw you ride by today…”
“He’s all right, a good horse,” replied Rostov, although the horse, which he had bought for seven hundred rubles, was not worth even half that price. “He’s begun to favor the left foreleg…” he added.
“The hoof’s cracked! It’s nothing. I’ll teach you, I’ll show you what sort of clinch nail to put on it.”
“Yes, please show me,” said Rostov.
“I will, I will, it’s no secret. And you’ll be thankful for the horse.”
“I’ll have the horse brought, then,” said Rostov, wishing to be rid of Telyanin, and he went to give orders for the horse to be brought.
In the front hall, Denisov, crouching on the threshold with his pipe, sat facing the sergeant major, who was reporting something. Seeing Rostov, Denisov winced and pointed over his shoulder with his thumb to the room where Telyanin was sitting, winced again, and shuddered with loathing.