LITMIR.BIZ

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of the Hofkriegsrat walking ahead of him. Nesvitsky and Zherkov were coming the other way, towards them.

      There was enough space in the broad corridor for the generals to pass the two officers, but Zherkov, pushing Nesvitsky to one side with his hand, said in a breathless voice:

      “They’re coming! They’re coming! Move over, make way! Please, make way!”

      The generals were walking along with an air that suggested they wished to avoid bothersome expressions of respect. Zherkov’s face was suddenly transformed by a stupid smile of joy, as if he were unable to restrain it.

      “You excellency,” he said in German, advancing and addressing the Austrian general. “Please permit me to congratulate you.” He inclined his head and began scraping first one foot, then the other, in a clumsy fashion, like a child learning to dance.

      The general who was a member of the Hofkriegsrat glanced sternly at him but, noticing the seriousness of the stupid smile, felt obliged to grant him a moment of attention. He lowered his gaze, to show he was listening.

      “Allow me to congratulate you on General Mack’s arriving quite unhurt, with only a little bump here,” Zherkov went on, smiling radiantly and pointing to his own head.

      The general scowled, turned away and began to walk on.

      “Gott, how naïve!” he said angrily after a few steps. Nesvitsky embraced Prince Andrei with a laugh and pulled him towards their room. Ignoring the laughter, Prince Andrei followed Nesvitsky inside, and going over to where Zherkov’s cap was lying on his table, he knocked it to the floor.

      “Yes, did you see that face?” Nesvitsky said through his laughter. “It was marvellous! Just a little bump here … ha, ha, ha!”

      “There’s nothing funny about it,” said Prince Andrei.

      “Nothing funny? Why, his face alone …”

      “Nothing funny. I am no great friend of the Austrians. However, there are proprieties that this villain may not be aware of, but which you and I should observe.”

      “Do stop that, he’ll come in any moment,” Nesvitsky interrupted, taking fright.

      “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

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