‘You’re a bit too loud. It frightens them,’ said Boris. ‘I didn’t expect you today,’ he added. ‘I only sent the note yesterday – through a friend of mine called Bolkonsky – he’s one of Kutuzov’s adjutants. I didn’t expect him to get it to you so quickly. Well, how are you? You’ve been under fire, then?’ asked Boris.
Instead of answering, Rostov, now the complete soldier, dangled the George Cross hanging from the braid of his uniform, and pointed to his bandaged arm before glancing at Berg with a smile.
‘As you see,’ he said.
‘Yes, indeed,’ said Boris, smiling, ‘and we have had a splendid march too. You probably know the Tsarevich came along with us all the way, so we did have a few extras and advantages. In Poland – oh, the parties, the dinners, the balls! – I can’t begin to tell you. And the Tsarevich was very gracious to all our officers.’ And both friends began telling their stories, the one describing the hussars and their high jinks, and then what it was like to be at the front, while the other went on about the pleasures and luxuries of service under people of the highest rank.
‘Oh, you guards!’ said Rostov. ‘Anyway, do send for some wine.’ Boris frowned.
‘Well, if you really want some,’ he said. And he went over to the bed, took a purse out from under the clean pillows and ordered some wine. ‘Oh yes, I ought to give you your letter and money,’ he added.
Rostov took the letter, threw the money down on the sofa, propped both elbows on the table and started to read. He had only read a line or two when he turned and gave Berg an angry look. Meeting his eyes, Rostov stuck the letter in front of his face.
‘I see they sent you a decent lot of money,’ said Berg, looking at the heavy purse that sank into the sofa. ‘I suppose we just about manage on our pay, Count. Take me, for instance . . .’
‘I say, Berg, old fellow,’ said Rostov, ‘when you get a letter from home and meet somebody close who you want to talk things over with, well, if I’m on the scene I’ll clear off straightaway so as not to get in the way. Listen, please go – anywhere, anywhere at all . . . I don’t damn well care where you go!’ he cried, but then he took Berg by the shoulder, gave him the warmest of looks, obviously keen to soften his rudeness, and added, ‘Don’t be angry with me, old fellow. I’m just talking straight to someone I’ve known for a long time.’
‘Don’t worry, Count, I quite understand,’ said Berg, getting to his feet and speaking half to himself in a kind of muffled, throaty growl.
‘Go and see the people of the house. You’ve been invited,’ put in Boris.
Berg put on an immaculately clean coat without a mark on it, looked in the mirror to brush his hair up at the temples in the style made fashionable by the Emperor himself, watched Rostov’s face until he was sure that his coat had been noticed and left the room with a sweet smile on his face.
‘Oh dear, I’ve behaved like an animal,’ said Rostov, turning to the letter.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Oh, I’ve been a real swine, not writing, and giving them such a scare. What a swine I am!’ he repeated, his face all flushed. ‘Anyway, did you send Gavrilo for some wine? Come on, then, let’s have a drink!’ he said.
The letters from home included a note of recommendation to Prince Bagration, suggested by Anna Mikhaylovna, obtained through various contacts by Countess Rostov and now sent on to her son for him to deliver and make use of.
‘Stupid nonsense! A fat lot of good that is,’ said Rostov, throwing the letter under the table.
‘Why did you throw it away?’ asked Boris.
‘Oh, it’s some sort of reference. What the devil do I need a letter like that for?’
‘What the devil do you need it for?’ said Boris, picking it up and reading the heading. ‘This letter could be very useful to you.’
‘I’ve got everything I need, and I’m not going to be anybody’s adjutant.’
‘Why not?’ asked Boris.
‘It’s a flunkey’s job.’
‘Still the great thinker, I see,’ said Boris, with a shake of his head.
‘And you’re still the great diplomat. But that’s not the point . . . Anyway, how have you been getting on?’ asked Rostov.
‘Well, you can see. So far everything’s fine, but I don’t mind admitting I’d be very glad to make adjutant and not get stuck in the front line.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, if you go in for a military career you might as well try and make it as brilliant a career as you can.’
‘Oh, I see,’ said Rostov, obviously miles away. He was staring closely into his friend’s eyes, thinking about something else, looking in vain for the solution to some question or other.
Old Gavrila brought in the wine.
‘Shall we send for Alphonse now?’ said Boris. ‘He’ll drink with you. I can’t.’
‘Yes, do. How are you getting on with our Teutonic friend?’ asked Rostov, with a disdainful smile.
‘He’s a very, very nice, decent, pleasant fellow,’ said Boris.
