War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy [157]
“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