The Pavlograd hussars were stationed two miles from Braunau. The squadron in which Nikolay Rostov was serving as an ensign was billeted on a German village, Salzeneck. The squadron commander, Captain Denisov, known throughout the cavalry division as Vaska, had been given the best quarters and Ensign Rostov was sharing with him, as he had done ever since he had joined the regiment in Poland.
On the 8th of October, the day when headquarters was shocked out of its complacency by the news of Mack’s defeat, life in this squadron had been going smoothly in its old routine.
Denisov had spent all night losing at cards and was still out when Rostov came back early that morning from a foraging expedition. Rostov rode up to the steps in his cadet’s uniform, reined in his horse, swung one leg over the saddle with the ease of a fit young man, stood up in the stirrup for a second as though reluctant to let go of the horse, and then leapt down and called for an orderly.
‘Ah, Bondarenko, my dear fellow,’ he said to the hussar who came rushing up to his horse. ‘Give him a walk, there’s a good fellow,’ he said, with the kind of cheery familiarity which good-hearted young people show to everyone when they are in a happy mood.
‘Yes, sir,’ answered the Ukrainian boy with a cheerful toss of his head.
‘Mind you give him a decent walk!’
Another hussar had rushed up by now, but Bondarenko had already thrown the reins of the snaffle-bit over the horse’s head.
The young cadet was obviously a good tipper, well worth working for. Rostov stroked the horse on its neck and flank and then paused for a while on the steps.
‘First rate! What a horse he’s going to be!’ he said to himself with a smile. Holding his sabre up, he ran up the steps with clattering spurs. The German on whom they were billeted, wearing his thick shirt and pointed cap, and holding a fork which he was using for mucking out, glanced out from the cowshed. His face lit up when he saw Rostov. With a cheerful smile and a quick wink he greeted him in German. ‘Good morning, a very good morning to you!’ He seemed to take pleasure in welcoming the young man.
‘You’re out working early!’ said Rostov, also in German, with the happy, friendly smile that never left his eager face. ‘Hurrah for the Austrians! Hurrah for the Russians! Long live the Emperor Alexander!’ he said, using phrases that had often been said before by the German, who now came out of his cowshed, laughing, pulled off his cap and waved it above his head, shouting, ‘And long live the whole world!’
Rostov did the same with his cap and cried out laughingly, ‘Yes, long live the whole world!’ There was no reason for either of them to celebrate, the German mucking out, or Rostov coming back from foraging for hay, but these two people beamed at each other in sheer delight and brotherly love, wagging their heads at one another to show mutual affection, and then they went off smiling, the German to his cowshed and Rostov to the rough cottage he was sharing with Denisov.
‘Where’s your master?’ he asked Lavrushka, Denisov’s valet, and a well-known rogue.
‘He’s been out all night. Must have been losing,’ answered Lavrushka. ‘I know him by now. If he wins he comes home early and tells us all about it – if he’s not back by morning, that means that he’s lost. He’ll be furious when he does come home. Shall I serve some coffee?’
‘Yes, please.’
Ten minutes later Lavrushka brought in the coffee.
‘He’s coming now!’ said he. ‘There’ll be trouble!’
Through the window Rostov could see Denisov returning home, a small figure of a man, red in the face, with sparkling black eyes, wayward black moustaches and tousled hair. His long cloak was unfastened, his baggy breeches hung down in folds and his hussar’s cap had slid down the back of his head, all crumpled. A picture of gloom, with downcast eyes, he walked to the steps.
‘Lavwushka!’ he yelled in a loud angry voice that emphasized his speech impediment, ‘Come on, get it off, man!’
‘Yes, that’s what I am doing,’ came Lavrushka’s voice in reply.
‘Oh, you’re up then,’ said Denisov, coming into the room.
‘Ages ago,’ said Rostov. ‘I’ve been out foraging – and I’ve seen Fräulein Mathilde.’
‘Have you? And I’ve been losing, bwother, all night long, like a son of a bitch,’ cried Denisov. ‘Wotten luck? You’ve never seen anything like it! Since the moment you left, no luck at all. Hey you, bwing me some tea!’
Denisov’s face wrinkled into something like a smile, which showed off his small, strong teeth, and he began working with the short fingers of both hands to ruffle the dense tangled thicket of his tousled black hair.
