War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy [156]
“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.
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