War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy [85]
“He gives you the simple, and beats it with the paroli; gives you the simple, and beats it with the paroli.”
He spilled the fire, smashed the pipe, and threw it away. Then he paused and suddenly glanced merrily at Rostov with his shining black eyes.
“If only there were some women. But here, except for drinking, there’s nothing to do. If only we’d start fighting soon…Hey, who’s there?” he turned to the door, hearing the tread of heavy boots with jingling spurs come to a stop and then a respectful cough.
“The sergeant major!” said Lavrushka.
Denisov winced still more.
“Rotten luck,” he said, throwing down a purse with a few gold pieces. “Rostov, dear heart, count up what’s left and put it under the pillow,” he said and went out to the sergeant major.
Rostov took the money and, mechanically sorting the old and new coins into separate piles, began counting it.
“Ah! Telyanin! Greetings! I blew everything last night,” Denisov’s voice came from the other room.
“Where? At Bykov’s, at the Rat’s?…I knew it,” said a high-pitched voice, and after that Lieutenant Telyanin, a small officer from the same squadron, came in.
Rostov threw the purse under the pillow and shook the small, moist hand that was held out to him. Telyanin had for some reason been transferred from the guards just before the campaign. He behaved very well in the regiment; but he was not liked, and Rostov especially could neither overcome nor conceal his causeless loathing for the man.
“Well, so, young cavalryman, how’s my Little Rook serving you?” he asked. (Little Rook was a saddle horse, recently broken, that Telyanin had sold to Rostov.)
The lieutenant never looked the person he was talking to in the eye; his eyes constantly shifted from one object to another.
“I saw you ride by today…”
“He’s all right, a good horse,” replied Rostov, although the horse, which he had bought for seven hundred rubles, was not worth even half that price. “He’s begun to favor the left foreleg…” he added.
“The hoof’s cracked! It’s nothing. I’ll teach you, I’ll show you what sort of clinch nail to put on it.”
“Yes, please show me,” said Rostov.
“I will, I will, it’s no secret. And you’ll be thankful for the horse.”
“I’ll have the horse brought, then,” said Rostov, wishing to be rid of Telyanin, and he went to give orders for the horse to be brought.
In the front hall, Denisov, crouching on the threshold with his pipe, sat facing the sergeant major, who was reporting something. Seeing Rostov, Denisov winced and pointed over his shoulder with his thumb to the room where Telyanin was sitting, winced again, and shuddered with loathing.
“Ach, I dislike the fellow,” he said, unembarrassed by the sergeant major’s presence.
Rostov shrugged his shoulders, as if to say, “So do I, but what to do!” and, having given orders, went back to Telyanin.
Telyanin was sitting in the same indolent pose in which Rostov had left him, rubbing his small white hands.
“There are such repulsive faces in the world,” thought Rostov, going into the room.
“So, did you order the horse brought?” asked Telyanin, getting up and glancing around casually.
“I did.”
“Well, come on then. I only stopped to ask Denisov about yesterday’s orders. Did you receive them, Denisov?”
“Not yet. And where are you going?”
“I want to teach the young man how to shoe a horse.”
They went out to the porch and to the stable. The lieutenant showed him how to do a clinch nail, and went home.
When Rostov came back, there was a bottle of vodka and some sausage on the table. Denisov was sitting at the table scratching on a piece of paper with his quill. He glanced darkly at Rostov’s face.
“I’m writing to her,” he said.
He leaned his elbow on the table, the quill in his hand, and, obviously glad of the chance to quickly speak out everything he wanted to write, began reciting his letter to Rostov.
“You see, friend,” he said, “we’re asleep until we love. We’re children of dust…but fall in love—and you’re