“What are you crying for, maman?” said Vera. “From all that he writes, you should rejoice and not cry.”
That was perfectly correct, but the count, and the countess, and Natasha—everyone looked at her with reproach. “Who does she take after?” thought the countess.
Nikolushka’s letter was read a hundred times, and those who were deemed worthy of listening to it had to come to the countess, who never let it out of her hands. Tutors, nannies, Mitenka, some acquaintances came, and the countess reread the letter each time with new delight and each time, through this letter, discovered new virtues in her Nikolushka. How strange, extraordinary, joyful it was that her son—that son who twenty years ago had moved his tiny limbs barely perceptibly inside her, that son over whom she had quarreled with the too-indulgent count, that son who had first learned to say “brush,” and then “mama,” that this son was now there, in a foreign land, in foreign surroundings, a manly warrior, alone, with no help or guidance, and doing there some manly business of his own. All the worldwide, age-old experience showing that children grow in an imperceptible way from the cradle to manhood, did not exist for the countess. Her son’s maturing had been at every point as extraordinary for her as if there had not been millions upon millions of men who had matured in just the same way. As it was hard to believe twenty years ago that the little being who lived somewhere under her heart would start crying, and suck her breast, and begin to talk, so now it was hard to believe that this same being could be the strong, brave man, an example to sons and people, that he was now, judging by this letter.
“What shtil, how nicely he describes things!” she said, reading the descriptive part of the letter. “And what soul! Nothing about himself…nothing! About some Denisov, but he himself is probably braver than all of them. He writes nothing about his sufferings. And what heart! It’s so like him! And how he remembered everyone! He didn’t forget anybody. I always, always said, when he was only so high, I always said…”
For more than a week the whole house prepared, wrote drafts, and rewrote clean copies of letters to Nikolushka; under the countess’s supervision and the count’s solicitude the necessary things and money were gathered to outfit the newly promoted officer and provide for his needs. Anna Mikhailovna, a practical woman, had been able to arrange patronage for herself and her son in the army even for purposes of correspondence. She could send her letters to the grand duke Konstantin Pavlovich, who commanded the guards. The Rostovs assumed that the address Russian Guards Abroad was a perfectly definite address, and that, if the letter reached the grand duke who was in command of the guards, there was no reason to think it would not reach the Pavlogradsky regiment, which should be in the vicinity; and therefore it was decided to send the letters and money through the grand duke’s courier to Boris, and Boris would have to deliver them to Nikolushka. There were letters from the old count, from the countess, from Petya, from Vera, from Natasha, and from Sonya, and, finally, 6,000 roubles for outfitting, as well as various things the count sent to his son.
VII
On the twelfth of November, Kutuzov’s active army, camped near Olmütz, was preparing to be reviewed the next day by two emperors—Russian and Austrian. The guards, just arrived from Russia, were spending the night some ten miles from Olmütz, and the next day would come straight to the review, entering the field at Olmütz by ten o’clock in the morning.
Nikolai Rostov received a note from Boris that day, informing him that the Izmailovsky regiment was spending the night ten miles from Olmütz, and that Boris was waiting for him, so as to give him a letter and money. Rostov especially needed money now, since the troops, having returned from the campaign, were stationed near Olmütz, where well-stocked sutlers and Austrian Jews filled the camp, offering all sorts of temptations. The Pavlogradsky hussars had one feast after another, celebrating the rewards they had received for the campaign, and made trips to Olmütz to visit the newly arrived Karolina the Hungarian, who had opened a tavern there with female waiters. Rostov had recently celebrated his promotion to cornet, had bought Bedouin, Denisov’s horse, and was in debt all around to comrades and sutlers. On receiving Boris’s note, Rostov rode to Olmütz with a comrade, had dinner there, drank a bottle of wine, and rode on alone to the guards’ camp to look for his childhood friend. Rostov had not yet had time to outfit himself. He was in a much-worn junker’s jacket with a soldier’s cross, the same sort of riding breeches with a shabby leather seat, and an officer’s saber with a sword knot; he was riding a Don horse that he had bought from a Cossack while on campaign; his crumpled hussar’s cap was dashingly pushed back and cocked. Riding up to the camp of the Izmailovsky regiment, he was thinking about how he would impress Boris and all his comrades in the guards by his look of a battle-seasoned hussar.
The guards had made the whole march as if on a promenade, showing off their cleanness and discipline. The stages were short, their packs were transported in wagons, the Austrian authorities prepared excellent dinners for the officers all along the way. The regiments entered and left towns to music, and for the whole march (something the guards took pride in), on the order of the grand duke, the men had walked in step, the officers on foot at their posts. All during the march, Boris had walked and quartered with Berg, who was now already a company commander. Berg, who had obtained the company during the march, had managed by his efficiency and neatness to earn the confidence of his superiors, and had arranged his financial affairs rather profitably; Boris had made many acquaintances during the march with people who could be useful to him, and, through a letter of recommendation brought to him from Pierre, had become acquainted with Prince Andrei Bolkonsky, through whom he hoped to get a post on the commander in chief’s staff. Berg and Boris, cleanly and neatly dressed, having rested after the day’s march, were sitting at a round table in the clean apartment assigned to them and playing checkers. Berg was holding a smoking little pipe between his knees. Boris, with his particular neatness, had piled the pieces in a pyramid with his slender white hands, waiting for Berg’s move and watching his partner’s face, obviously thinking about the game, as he always thought only about what he was engaged in.
“Well, how are you going to get out of that?” he said.
“We’ll try,” replied Berg, touching a piece and taking his hand away again.
Just then the door opened.
“Ah, here he is at last!” cried Rostov. “And Berg’s here, too! Ah, you petisenfan, allay cushay dormir!”*260 he cried, repeating the words of their nanny, at whom he and Boris used to laugh together.
“Good heavens! how you’ve changed!” Boris rose to meet Rostov, but in rising did not forget to pick up the fallen chessmen and put them in place, and was about to embrace his friend, but Nikolai drew back from him. With that feeling peculiar to youth, which fears beaten paths and wants, not to imitate others, but to express its feelings in a new, personal way, only not in the often feigned way its elders do, Nikolai wanted to do something special on meeting his friend: he wanted somehow to pinch or push Boris, only not to kiss him as everybody does. Boris, on the contrary, calmly and amicably embraced Rostov and kissed him three times.