‘Devil knows why I had to take on that wotten wat,’ (one of the officers was nicknamed ‘rat’) he said, rubbing his forehead and face with both hands. ‘Can you believe it? He never dealt me a decent card, not one, not one, not one!’ Denisov accepted the lighted pipe that was handed to him, squeezed it in his fist, tapped it on the floor with a shower of sparks, and carried on shouting. ‘Lets you win stwaight, and he wins the doubles. Me stwaight, him doubles.’
He scattered more sparks, the pipe broke and he threw it away. Then he paused and turned his gleaming black eyes sharply on Rostov.
‘If only there were some women! But here you have a dwink and then there’s nothing else to do. What we need is some fighting, and soon . . . Hey, who’s that?’ he called, turning towards the door, hearing someone stop with a clattering of thick boots and clanking spurs, followed by a polite cough.
‘Quartermaster!’ called out Lavrushka. Denisov wrinkled his face up more than ever.
‘Oh damn!’ he said, flinging down a purse with a few gold coins in it. ‘Wostov, dear boy, would you count how much is left, and shove the purse under my pillow?’ he said, and went out to see the quartermaster. Rostov took the money and began to sort it automatically into two heaps, old coins and new ones, which he then began to count.
‘Ah, Telyanin! Good morning to you! Cleaned me wight out last night,’ he could heard Denisov saying in the other room.
‘Where were you? At Bykov’s? At the rat’s? . . . I knew it,’ said another person’s reedy voice, and into the room walked Lieutenant Telyanin, a small fellow officer.
Rostov stuffed the purse under the pillow, and went to shake the damp little hand that was offered. For some reason Telyanin had been transferred from the guards just before the regiment had marched off. He had behaved well enough with them, but no one liked him and Rostov in particular couldn’t abide him or even manage to hide his unreasonable dislike of this officer.
‘Well now, my young cavalryman, how are you getting on with my Little Rook?’ (Little Rook was his young horse, well broken-in for riding, that Telyanin had sold to Rostov.) The lieutenant never looked anyone in the eye when he was speaking; his own eyes were continually darting from one object to another. ‘I saw you out on him today . . .’
‘Oh, not bad at all. He’s a good ride,’ answered Rostov, though the horse for which he had paid seven hundred roubles wasn’t really worth half that amount. ‘He’s limping a bit on the left fore-leg . . .’ he added.
‘Got a cracked hoof! It’s nothing. I’ll teach you. I’ll show you how to put a rivet in.’
‘I’d be glad if you would,’ said Rostov.
‘I’ll show you, I’ll show you. Nothing secret about it. But you’ll be glad you bought that horse.’
‘Good, I’ll have him brought round,’ said Rostov, anxious to get rid of Telyanin, and he went out to arrange for them to get the horse.
Outside, Denisov was squatting on the threshold with a new pipe, facing the quartermaster, who was reporting to him. Seeing Rostov, Denisov screwed up his face, pointed a thumb over his shoulder towards the room where Telyanin was still sitting, frowned and shuddered with revulsion.
‘Ugh! I can’t stand that fellow,’ he said, ignoring the quartermaster.
Rostov shrugged as if to say, ‘Neither can I, but what can you do?’ He gave his instructions and went back in to Telyanin, who was sitting as before, in the same languid pose, rubbing his little white hands together.
‘Some people are just too awful for words!’ thought Rostov as he entered.
‘Well, have you ordered them to fetch the horse?’ said Telyanin, getting up and looking around casually.
‘Yes.’
‘Well, you come too. I just dropped in to ask Denisov about yesterday’s order. Have you got it, Denisov?’
‘No, not yet. Where are you off to?’
‘I’m going to show this young man how to shoe a horse,’ said Telyanin.
They went out, down the steps and into the stable. The lieutenant showed Rostov how to fix a rivet and then went off to his own quarters.
When Rostov got back, there on the table stood a bottle of vodka and some sausage. Denisov was sitting there, and his pen was scratching across a sheet of paper. He looked glumly into Rostov’s face.
‘I am witing to her,’ he said. He leant his elbows on the table, pen in hand, and was obviously so delighted at the prospect of speaking much faster than he could write that he gave Rostov the benefit of his whole letter. ‘You see, my dear fellow,’ he said, ‘we are asleep until we fall in love . . . we are the childwen of dust and ashes . . . but once you have loved you are a god, as pure as on the first day of cweation . . . Who’s
‘Who do you expect?
Denisov scowled and seemed as if he would say something, but didn’t.
‘Wotten business altogether!’ he said to himself. ‘How much was there left in that purse?’ he asked Rostov.
