CHAPTER IV

Chinese

THE PAVLOGRADSKY REGIMENT of hussars was stationed two miles from Braunau. The squadron in which Nikolay Rostov was serving as ensign was billeted on a German village, Salzeneck. The officer in command of the squadron, Captain Denisov, known through the whole cavalry division under the name of Vaska Denisov, had been assigned the best quarters in the village. Ensign Rostov had been sharing his quarters, ever since he overtook the regiment in Poland.

On the 8th of October, the very day when at headquarters all was astir over the news of Mack's defeat, the routine of life was going on as before among the officers of this squadron.

Denisov, who had been losing all night at cards, had not yet returned home, when Rostov rode back early in the morning from a foraging expedition. Rostov, in his ensign's uniform, rode up to the steps, with a jerk to his horse, swung his leg over with a supple, youthful action, stood a moment in the stirrup as though loath to part from the horse, at last sprang down and called the orderly.

“Ah, Bondarenko, friend of my heart,” he said to the hussar who rushed headlong up to his horse. “Walk him up and down, my dear fellow,” he said, with that gay and brotherly cordiality with which good-hearted young people behave to every one, when they are happy.

“Yes, your excellency,” answered the Little Russian, shaking his head good-humouredly.

“Mind now, walk him about well!”

Another hussar rushed up to the horse too, but Bondarenko had already hold of the reins.

It was evident that the ensign was liberal with his tips, and that his service was a profitable one. Rostov stroked the horse on the neck and then on the haunch, and lingered on the steps.

“Splendid! What a horse he will be!” he said to himself, and smiling and holding his sword, he ran up the steps, clanking his spurs. The German, on whom they were billeted, looked out of the cowshed, wearing a jerkin and a pointed cap, and holding a fork, with which he was clearing out the dung. The German's face brightened at once when he saw Rostov. He smiled good-humouredly and winked. “Good-morning, good-morning!” he repeated, apparently taking pleasure in greeting the young man.

“At work already?” said Rostov, still with the same happy, fraternal smile that was constantly on his eager face. “Long live the Austrians! Long live the Russians! Hurrah for the Emperor Alexander!” he said, repeating phrases that had often been uttered by the German. The German laughed, came right out of the cowshed, pulled off his cap, and waving it over his head, cried:

“And long live all the world!”

Rostov too, like the German, waved his cap over his bead, and laughing cried: “And hurrah for all the world!” Though there was no reason for any special rejoicing either for the German, clearing out his shed, or for Rostov, coming back from foraging for hay, both these persons gazed at one another in delighted ecstasy and brotherly love, wagged their heads at each other in token of their mutual affection, and parted with smiles, the German to his cowshed, and Rostov to the cottage he shared with Denisov.

“Where's your master?” he asked of Lavrushka, Denisov's valet, well known to all the regiment as a rogue.

“His honour's not been in since the evening. He's been losing, for sure,” answered Lavrushka. “I know by now, if he wins, he'll come home early to boast of his luck; but if he's not back by morning, it means that he's lost,—he'll come back in a rage. Shall I bring coffee?”

“Yes, bring it.”

Ten minutes later, Lavrushka brought in the coffee.

“He's coming!” said he; “now for trouble!”

Rostov glanced out of the window and saw Denisov returning home. Denisov was a little man with a red face, sparkling black eyes, tousled black whiskers and hair. He was wearing an unbuttoned tunic, wide breeches that fell in folds, and on the back of his head a crushed hussar's cap. Gloomily, with downcast head, he drew near the steps.

“Lavrushka,” he shouted, loudly and angrily, lisping the r, “come, take it off, blockhead!”

“Well, I am taking it off,” answered Lavrushka's voice.

“Ah! you are up already,” said Denisov, coming into the room.

“Long ago,” said Rostov; “I've been out already after hay, and I have seen Fräulein Mathilde.”

“Really? And I've been losing, my boy, all night, like the son of a dog,” cried Denisov, not pronouncing his r's. “Such ill-luck! such ill-luck! …As soon as you left, my luck was gone. Hey, tea?”

Denisov, puckering up his face as though he were smiling, and showing his short, strong teeth, began with his short-fingered hands ruffling up his thick, black hair, that was tangled like a forest.

“The devil was in me to go to that rat” (the nickname of an officer), he said, rubbing his brow and face with both hands. “Only fancy, he didn't deal me one card, not one, not one card!” Denisov took the lighted pipe that was handed to him, gripped it in his fist, and scattering sparks, he tapped it on the floor, still shouting.

“He lets me have the simple, and beats the parole; lets me get the simple, and beats the parole.”

He scattered the sparks, broke the pipe, and threw it away. Then Denisov paused, and all at once he glanced brightly at Rostov with his gleaming black eyes.

“If there were only women. But here, except drinking, there's nothing to do. If only we could get to fighting soon.… Hey, who's there?” he called towards the door, catching the sounds of thick boots and clanking spurs that came to a stop, and of a respectful cough.

“The sergeant!” said Lavrushka. Denisov puckered up his face more than ever.

“That's a nuisance,” he said, flinging down a purse with several gold coins in it. “Rostov, count, there's a dear boy, how much is left, and put the purse under the pillow,” he said, and he went out to the sergeant. Rostov took the money and mechanically sorting and arranging in heaps the old and new gold, he began counting it over.

“Ah, Telyanin! Good-morning! I was cleaned out last night,” he heard Denisov's voice saying from the other room.

“Where was that? At Bykov's? At the rat's? … I knew it,” said a thin voice, and thereupon there walked into the room Lieutenant Telyanin, a little officer in the same squadron.

Rostov put the purse under the pillow, and shook the damp little hand that was offered him. Telyanin had for some reason been transferred from the guards just before the regiment set out. He had behaved very well in the regiment, but he was not liked, and Rostov, in particular, could not endure him, and could not conceal his groundless aversion for this officer.

“Well, young cavalryman, how is my Rook doing for you?” (Rook was a riding-horse Telyanin had sold to Rostov.) The lieutenant never looked the person he was speaking to in the face. His eyes were continually flitting from one object to another. “I saw you riding today …”

“Oh, he's all right; a good horse,” answered Rostov, though the horse, for which he had paid seven hundred roubles, was not worth half that sum. “He's begun to go a little lame in the left foreleg …” he added.

“The hoof cracked! That's no matter. I'll teach you, I'll show you the sort of thing to put on it.”

“Yes, please do,” said Rostov.

“I'll show you, I'll show you, it's not a secret. But you'll be grateful to me for that horse.”

“Then I'll have the horse brought round,” said Rostov, anxious to be rid of Telyanin. He went out to order the horse to be brought round.

In the outer room Denisov was squatting on the threshold with a pipe, facing the sergeant, who was giving him some report. On seeing Rostov, Denisov screwed up his eyes, and pointing over his shoulder with his thumb to the room where Telyanin was sitting, he frowned and shook his head with an air of loathing.

“Ugh! I don't like the fellow,” he said, regardless of the presence of the sergeant.

Rostov shrugged his shoulders as though to say, “Nor do I, but what's one to do?” And having given his order, he went back to Telyanin.

The latter was still sitting in the same indolent pose in which Rostov had left him, rubbing his little white hands.

“What nasty faces there are in this world!” thought Rostov as he went into the room.

“Well, have you given orders for the horse to be fetched out?” said Telyanin, getting up and looking carelessly about him.

“Yes.”

“Well, you come along yourself. I only came round to ask Denisov about yesterday's order. Have you got it, Denisov?”

“Not yet. But where are you off to?”

“I'm going to show this young man here how to shoe a horse,” said Telyanin.

They went out down the steps and into the stable. The lieutenant showed how to put on the remedy, and went away to his own quarters.

When Rostov went back there was a bottle of vodka and some sausage on the table. Denisov was sitting at the table, and his pen was squeaking over the paper. He looked gloomily into Rostov's face.

“I am writing to her,” he said. He leaned his elbow on the table with the pen in his hand, and obviously rejoiced at the possibility of saying by word of mouth all he meant to write, he told the contents of his letter to Rostov. “You see, my dear boy,” he said, “we are plunged in slumber, we are the children of dust and ashes, until we love … but love, and you are a god, you are pure, as on the first day of creation.… Who's that now? Send him to the devil! I've no time!” he shouted to Lavrushka, who, not in the slightest daunted, went up to him.

“Why, who should it be? You told him to come yourself. The sergeant has come for the money.”

Denisov frowned, seemed about to shout some reply, but did not speak.

“It's a nuisance,” he said to himself. “How much money was there left there in the purse?” he asked Rostov.

“Seven new and three old gold pieces.”

“Oh, it's a nuisance! Well, why are you standing there, you mummy? Send the sergeant!” Denisov shouted to Lavrushka.

“Please, Denisov, take the money from me; I've plenty,” said Rostov, blushing.

“I don't like borrowing from my own friends; I dislike it,” grumbled Denisov.

“But if you won't take money from me like a comrade, you'll offend me. I've really got it,” repeated Rostov.

“Oh, no.” And Denisov went to the bed to take the purse from under the pillow.

“Where did you put it, Rostov?”

“Under the lower pillow.”

“But it's not there.” Denisov threw both the pillows on the floor. There was no purse. “Well, that's a queer thing.”

“Wait a bit, haven't you dropped it?” said Rostov, picking the pillows up one at a time and shaking them. He took off the quilt and shook it. The purse was not there.

“Could I have forgotten? No, for I thought that you keep it like a secret treasure under your head,” said Rostov. “I laid the purse here. Where is it?” He turned to Lavrushka.

“I never came into the room. Where you put it, there it must be.”

“But it isn't.”

“You're always like that; you throw things down anywhere and forget them. Look in your pockets.”

“No, if I hadn't thought of its being a secret treasure,” said Rostov, “but I remember where I put it.”

Lavrushka ransacked the whole bed, glanced under it and under the table, ransacked the whole room and stood still in the middle of the room. Denisov watched Lavrushka's movements in silence, and when Lavrushka flung up his hands in amazement to signify that it was nowhere, he looked round at Rostov.

“Rostov, none of your schoolboy jokes.”

Rostov, feeling Denisov's eyes upon him, lifted his eyes and instantly dropped them again. All his blood, which felt as though it had been locked up somewhere below his throat, rushed to his face and eyes. He could hardly draw his breath.

“And there's been no one in the room but the lieutenant and yourselves. It must be here somewhere,” said Lavrushka.

“Now then, you devil's puppet, bestir yourself and look for it!” Denisov shouted suddenly, turning purple and dashing at the valet with a threatening gesture. “The purse is to be found, or I'll flog you! I'll flog you all!”

Rostov, his eyes avoiding Denisov, began buttoning up his jacket fastening on his sword, and putting on his forage-cap.

“I tell you the purse is to be found,” roared Denisov, shaking the orderly by the shoulders and pushing him against the wall.

“Denisov, let him be; I know who has taken it,” said Rostov, going towards the door without raising his eyes.

Denisov stopped, thought a moment, and evidently understanding Rostov's hint, he clutched him by the arm.

“Nonsense!” he roared so that the veins stood out on his neck and forehead like cords. “I tell you, you've gone out of your mind; I won't allow it. The purse is here; I'll flay the skin off this rascal, and it will be here.”

“I know who has taken it,” repeated Rostov, in a shaking voice, and he went to the door.

“And I tell you, you're not to dare to do it,” shouted Denisov, making a dash at the ensign to detain him. But Rostov pulled his arm away, lifted his eyes, and looked directly and resolutely at Denisov with as much fury as if he had been his greatest enemy.

“Do you understand what you're saying?” he said in a trembling voice; “except me, there has been no one else in the room. So that, if it's not so, why then …”

He could not utter the rest, and ran out of the room.

“Oh, damn you and all the rest,” were the last words Rostov heard.

Rostov went to Telyanin's quarters.

“The master's not at home, he's gone to the staff,” Telyanin's orderly told him. “Has something happened?” the orderly added, wondering at the ensign's troubled face.

“No, nothing.”

“You've only just missed him,” said the orderly.

The staff quarters were two miles and a half from Salzeneck. Not having found him at home, Rostov took his horse and rode to the quarters of the staff. In the village, where the staff was quartered, there was a restaurant which the officers frequented. Rostov reached the restaurant and saw Telyanin's horse at the entry.

In the second room the lieutenant was sitting over a dish of sausages and a bottle of wine.

“Ah, you have come here too, young man,” he said, smiling and lifting his eyebrows.

“Yes,” said Rostov, speaking as though the utterance of the word cost him great effort; and he sat down at the nearest table.

Both were silent; there were two Germans and a Russian officer in the room. Every one was mute, and the only sounds audible were the clatter of knives on the plates and the munching of the lieutenant. When Telyanin had finished his lunch, he took out of his pocket a double purse; with his little white fingers, that were curved at the tips, he parted the rings, took out some gold, and raising his eyebrows, gave the money to the attendant.

“Make haste, please,” he said.

The gold was new. Rostov got up and went to Telyanin.

“Let me look at the purse,” he said in a low voice, scarcely audible.

With shifting eyes, but eyebrows still raised, Telyanin gave him the purse.

“Yes, it's a pretty purse … yes …” he said, and suddenly he turned white. “You can look at it, young man,” he added.

Rostov took the purse in his hand and looked both at it and at the money in it, and also at Telyanin. The lieutenant looked about him, as his way was, and seemed suddenly to have grown very good-humoured.

“If we go to Vienna, I suspect I shall leave it all there, but now there's nowhere to spend our money in these wretched little places,” he said. “Come, give it me, young man; I'm going.”

Rostov did not speak.

“What are you going to do? have lunch too? They give you decent food,” Telyanin went on. “Give it me.” He put out his hand and took. hold of the purse. Rostov let go of it. Telyanin took the purse and began carelessly dropping it into the pocket of his riding trousers, while his eyebrows were carelessly lifted and his mouth stood a little open, as though he would say: “Yes, yes, I'm putting my purse in my pocket, and that's a very simple matter, and no one has anything to do with it.”

“Well, young man?” he said with a sign, and from under his lifted eyebrows he glanced into Rostov's eyes. A kind of gleam passed with the swiftness of an electric flash from Telyanin's eyes to the eyes of Rostov, and back again and back again and again, all in one instant.

“Come here,” said Rostov, taking Telyanin by the arm. He almost dragged him to the window. “That's Denisov's money; you took it …” he whispered in his ear.

“What? … what? … How dare you? What?” … said Telyanin. But the words sounded like a plaintive, despairing cry and prayer for forgiveness. As soon as Rostov heard the sound of his voice, a great weight of suspense, like a stone, rolled off his heart. He felt glad, and at the same instant he pitied the luckless creature standing before him, but he had to carry the thing through to the end.

“God knows what the people here may think,” muttered Telyanin, snatching up his forage-cap and turning towards a small empty room. “You must explain …”

“I know that, and I'll prove it,” said Rostov.

“I …”

The terrified, white face of Telyanin began twitching in every muscle; his eyes still moved uneasily, but on the ground, never rising to the level of Rostov's face, and tearful sobs could be heard.

“Count! … don't ruin a young man … here is the wretched money, take it.” … He threw it on the table. “I've an old father and mother!”

Rostov took the money, avoiding Telyanin's eyes, and without uttering a word, he went out of the room. But in the doorway he stopped and turned back.

“My God!” he said, with tears in his eyes, “how could you do it?”

“Count,” said Telyanin, coming nearer to the ensign.

“Don't touch me,” said Rostov, drawing back. “If you're in need take the money.”

He thrust a purse on him and ran out of the restaurant.

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