War and Peace. Лев Толстой

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СКАЧАТЬ went to his bed, drew a purse from under the clean pillow, and sent for wine.

      “Yes, and I have some money and a letter to give you,” he added.

      Rostóv took the letter and, throwing the money on the sofa, put both arms on the table and began to read. After reading a few lines, he glanced angrily at Berg, then, meeting his eyes, hid his face behind the letter.

      “Well, they’ve sent you a tidy sum,” said Berg, eying the heavy purse that sank into the sofa. “As for us, Count, we get along on our pay. I can tell you for myself …”

      “I say, Berg, my dear fellow,” said Rostóv, “when you get a letter from home and meet one of your own people whom you want to talk everything over with, and I happen to be there, I’ll go at once, to be out of your way! Do go somewhere, anywhere … to the devil!” he exclaimed, and immediately seizing him by the shoulder and looking amiably into his face, evidently wishing to soften the rudeness of his words, he added, “Don’t be hurt, my dear fellow; you know I speak from my heart as to an old acquaintance.”

      “Oh, don’t mention it, Count! I quite understand,” said Berg, getting up and speaking in a muffled and guttural voice.

      “Go across to our hosts: they invited you,” added Borís.

      Berg put on the cleanest of coats, without a spot or speck of dust, stood before a looking glass and brushed the hair on his temples upwards, in the way affected by the Emperor Alexander, and, having assured himself from the way Rostóv looked at it that his coat had been noticed, left the room with a pleasant smile.

      “Oh dear, what a beast I am!” muttered Rostóv, as he read the letter.

      “Why?”

      “Oh, what a pig I am, not to have written and to have given them such a fright! Oh, what a pig I am!” he repeated, flushing suddenly. “Well, have you sent Gabriel for some wine? All right let’s have some!”

      In the letter from his parents was enclosed a letter of recommendation to Bagratión which the old countess at Anna Mikháylovna’s advice had obtained through an acquaintance and sent to her son, asking him to take it to its destination and make use of it.

      “What nonsense! Much I need it!” said Rostóv, throwing the letter under the table.

      “Why have you thrown that away?” asked Borís.

      “It is some letter of recommendation … what the devil do I want it for!”

      “Why ‘What the devil’?” said Borís, picking it up and reading the address. “This letter would be of great use to you.”

      “I want nothing, and I won’t be anyone’s adjutant.”

      “Why not?” inquired Borís.

      “It’s a lackey’s job!”

      “You are still the same dreamer, I see,” remarked Borís, shaking his head.

      “And you’re still the same diplomatist! But that’s not the point … Come, how are you?” asked Rostóv.

      “Well, as you see. So far everything’s all right, but I confess I should much like to be an adjutant and not remain at the front.”

      “Why?”

      “Because when once a man starts on military service, he should try to make as successful a career of it as possible.”

      “Oh, that’s it!” said Rostóv, evidently thinking of something else.

      He looked intently and inquiringly into his friend’s eyes, evidently trying in vain to find the answer to some question.

      Old Gabriel brought in the wine.

      “Shouldn’t we now send for Berg?” asked Borís. “He would drink with you. I can’t.”

      “Well, send for him … and how do you get on with that German?” asked Rostóv, with a contemptuous smile.

      “He is a very, very nice, honest, and pleasant fellow,” answered Borís.

      Again Rostóv looked intently into Borís’ eyes and sighed. Berg returned, and over the bottle of wine conversation between the three officers became animated. The guardsmen told Rostóv of their march and how they had been made much of in Russia, Poland, and abroad. They spoke of the sayings and doings of their commander, the grand duke, and told stories of his kindness and irascibility. Berg, as usual, kept silent when the subject did not relate to himself, but in connection with the stories of the grand duke’s quick temper he related with gusto how in Galicia he had managed to deal with the grand duke when the latter made a tour of the regiments and was annoyed at the irregularity of a movement. With a pleasant smile Berg related how the grand duke had ridden up to him in a violent passion, shouting: “Arnauts!” (“Arnauts” was the tsarévich’s favorite expression when he was in a rage) and called for the company commander.

      “Would you believe it, Count, I was not at all alarmed, because I knew I was right. Without boasting, you know, I may say that I know the army orders by heart and know the regulations as well as I do the Lord’s Prayer. So, Count, there never is any negligence in my company, and so my conscience was at ease. I came forward… .” (Berg stood up and showed how he presented himself, with his hand to his cap, and really it would have been difficult for a face to express greater respect and self-complacency than his did.) “Well, he stormed at me, as the saying is, stormed and stormed and stormed! It was not a matter of life but rather of death, as the saying is. ‘Albanians!’ and ‘devils!’ and ‘To Siberia!’” said Berg with a sagacious smile. “I knew I was in the right so I kept silent; was not that best, Count? … ‘Hey, are you dumb?’ he shouted. Still I remained silent. And what do you think, Count? The next day it was not even mentioned in the Orders of the Day. That’s what keeping one’s head means. That’s the way, Count,” said Berg, lighting his pipe and emitting rings of smoke.

      “Yes, that was fine,” said Rostóv, smiling.

      But Borís noticed that he was preparing to make fun of Berg, and skillfully changed the subject. He asked him to tell them how and where he got his wound. This pleased Rostóv and he began talking about it, and as he went on became more and more animated. He told them of his Schön Grabern affair, just as those who have taken part in a battle generally do describe it, that is, as they would like it to have been, as they have heard it described by others, and as sounds well, but not at all as it really was. Rostóv was a truthful young man and would on no account have told a deliberate lie. He began his story meaning to tell everything just as it happened, but imperceptibly, involuntarily, and inevitably he lapsed into falsehood. If he had told the truth to his hearers—who like himself had often heard stories of attacks and had formed a definite idea of what an attack was and were expecting to hear just such a story—they would either not have believed him or, still worse, would have thought that Rostóv was himself to blame since what generally happens to the narrators of cavalry attacks had not happened to him. He could not tell them simply that everyone went at a trot and that he fell off his horse and sprained his arm and then ran as hard as he could from a Frenchman into the wood. Besides, to tell everything as it really happened, it would have been necessary to make an effort of will to tell only what happened. It is very difficult to tell the truth, and young people are rarely capable of it. His hearers expected a story of how beside himself and all aflame with excitement, he had flown like a storm at the square, СКАЧАТЬ