They had not seen each other for nearly half a year; and at their age, when young men take their first steps on life’s path, they both found enormous changes in each other, totally new reflections of the society in which they had taken their first steps in life. Both had changed greatly since their last meeting, and both wanted the sooner to show each other the changes that had taken place in them.
“Ah, you cursed floor-scrubbers! Clean, fresh, as if from a promenade, not like us sinful army folk,” Rostov said, with baritone sounds in his voice and an army manner that were new for Boris, pointing to his mud-splashed breeches.
The German landlady stuck her head through the door, hearing Rostov’s loud voice.
“A pretty little thing, eh?” he said, winking.
“Why are you shouting so? You’ll frighten them,” said Boris. “I wasn’t expecting you today,” he added. “I sent you a note just yesterday through an acquaintance, Kutuzov’s adjutant—Bolkonsky. I didn’t think he’d deliver it to you so soon…Well, how are you? Already been under fire?” asked Boris.
Rostov, without answering, shook the soldier’s Cross of St. George that hung on the cords of his uniform and, pointing to his arm in a sling, looked smiling at Berg.
“As you see,” he said.
“Well, there, yes, yes!” Boris said, smiling. “And we also had a nice march. You know, the grand duke constantly rode with our regiment, and so we had all the conveniences and advantages. The receptions we had in Poland, the dinners, the balls—I can’t tell you! And the grand duke was very gracious to all our officers.”
And the two friends began telling each other—the one about his hussar carousing and life at the front, the other about the pleasures and advantages of serving under the command of highly placed persons, and so on.
“Oh, you guards!” said Rostov. “But listen, send for some wine.”
Boris winced.
“If you’re sure you want it,” he said.
And going to his bed, he took a purse from under the clean pillows and ordered wine brought.
“Yes, and I have to give you your money and letter,” he added.
Rostov took the letter and, throwing the money on the sofa, leaned both elbows on the table and began to read. He read a few lines and glanced angrily at Berg. Having met his eyes, Rostov covered his face with the letter.
“They sent you a decent sum of money, though,” said Berg, looking at the heavy purse pressing down on the sofa. “And we just get by on our pay, Count. I’ll tell you about myself…”
“The thing is this, Berg, my dear,” said Rostov. “If you received a letter from home and met one of your people, whom you’d like to question about everything, and I happened to be there—I’d leave at once, so as not to interfere with you. Listen, please go away, somewhere, anywhere…to the devil!” he cried, and taking him by the shoulder at once and looking amiably into his face, obviously trying to soften the rudeness of his words, he added: “You know, don’t be angry, my dear, kind fellow, I’m speaking from the heart, as to our old acquaintance.”
“Ah, for pity’s sake, Count, I understand very well,” said Berg, getting up and speaking to himelf in a guttural voice.
“Go across to the landlords: they invited you,” added Boris.
Berg put on the cleanest of frock coats, with not a spot or speck on it, fluffed up his whiskers in front of the mirror, as Alexander Pavlovich wore them, and, assuring himself from Rostov’s glance that his frock coat had been noticed, left the room with a pleasant smile.
“Ah, what a beast I am, though!” said Rostov, reading the letter.
“What’s wrong?”
“Ah, what a swine I am, though, that I didn’t write even once and frightened them so. Ah, what a swine I am!” he repeated, suddenly blushing. “So send Gavrilo for wine! Let’s have a drink!” he said.
Among the letters from his family there was also a letter of recommendation to Prince Bagration, which the old countess had obtained through acquaintances, on the advice of Anna Mikhailovna, and sent on to her son, asking him to take it to its destination and make use of it.
“What stupidity! As if I need it,” said Rostov, throwing the letter under the table.
“Why did you throw it on the floor?” asked Boris.
“It’s some sort of letter of recommendation, what the devil is a letter to me!”
“How do you mean, what the devil is a letter?” said Boris, picking it up and reading the address. “You need this letter very much.”
“I don’t need anything, and I won’t go and be anybody’s adjutant.”
“Why not?” asked Boris.
“It’s a lackey’s job.”
“You’re still the same dreamer, I see,” said Boris, shaking his head.
“And you’re the same diplomat. Well, but that’s not the point…Well, how are you?” asked Rostov.
“As you see. So far everything’s fine; but I confess, my wish, and it’s a great one, is to become an adjutant and not stay at the front.”
“Why?”
“Because once you’ve set out on a career in military service, you should try to do all you can to make it a brilliant career.”
“Ah, so that’s it!” said Rostov, evidently thinking about something else.
He looked intently and questioningly into his friend’s eyes, evidently searching in vain for the answer to some question.
Old Gavrilo brought the wine.
“Shouldn’t we send for Alphonse Karlych now?” asked Boris. “He’ll drink with you. I can’t.”
“Send for him, send for him! Well, and what’s this German like?” Rostov asked with a scornful smile.
“He’s a very good, honest, and agreeable man,” said Boris.
Rostov once again looked intently into Boris’s eyes and sighed. Berg returned, and over a bottle of wine the conversation of these three officers became animated. The two guardsmen told Rostov about their march, about how they were honored in Russia, Poland, and abroad. They told about the words and deeds of their commander, the grand duke, anecdotes about his kindness and hot temper. Berg, as usual, kept silent when things did not concern him personally, but on the occasion of anecdotes about the grand duke’s hot temper, he told with delight how in Galicia he had managed to talk with the grand duke, when he was making the rounds of the regiments and waxed wroth at the incorrectness of a maneuver. With a pleasant smile on his face, he told how the grand duke, in great wrath, had ridden up to him and shouted: “Arnauti!”3 (Arnauti was his highness’s favorite word when he was wrathful), and summoned the regimental commander.
“Would you believe it, Count, I wasn’t afraid at all, because I knew I was right. You know, Count, I can say without boasting that I know the regimental orders by heart, and I also know the regulations like the Our Father in Heaven. That’s why there’s no negligence in my company, Count. So my conscience was at ease. I presented myself.” (Berg stood up and impersonated how he had presented himself with his hand to his visor. Indeed, it would be hard to impersonate any greater deference and self-satisfaction.) “He roasted me, as they say, roasted, roasted; roasted me not to the quick, but to death, as they say: ‘Arnauti,’ and ‘devils,’ and ‘to Siberia,’” Berg said, smiling shrewdly. “I know I’m right, so I say nothing, isn’t that the way, Count? ‘Are you mute, or what?’ he shouts. I still say nothing. And what do you think, Count? The next day there was nothing in the orders; that’s what it means not to get flustered! There you are, Count,” said Berg, lighting his pipe and letting out little smoke rings.
“Yes, very nice,” said Rostov, smiling.