War and Peace: Original Version. Лев Толстой

into the cowshed and Nikolai into the hut that he and Denisov occupied.

      The previous day the officers of this squadron had gathered at the quarters of the captain of the fourth squadron in a different village and spent the whole night playing cards. Rostov had been there, but he had left early. For all his desire to be the complete hussar and comrade, he could not drink more than a glass of wine without feeling ill, and he fell asleep at cards. He had too much money, and did not know what to do with it, so he could not understand the pleasure of winning. Every time he placed a stake on the advice of the officers, he won money that he did not need and observed how disagreeable this was for the man whose money it was, but he was unable to help him. Even though the squadron commander had never reprimanded him in connection with his duties, Rostov had decided for himself that in military service the most important thing was to be conscientious in performing one’s duty, and he had informed all the officers that he would regard himself as worthless trash if he ever permitted himself to skip his turn for a duty assignment or a mission. Subsequently he discovered for himself that the duties of serving as a non-commissioned officer, which no one had forced him to undertake, were onerous, but he remembered the incautious pledge that he had given and did not betray it. Having been given, as part of his duties as a non-commissioned officer, the order of the day by the sergeant-major the previous evening, he had accordingly given orders to be woken before dawn so as to take a platoon out to get hay. While Denisov was still sleeping, Rostov had already had a long talk with the hussars, taken a good look at a German girl, the daughter of the schoolteacher in Salzenek, started to feel hungry and arrived back in that happy state of mind in which all people are kind, lovable and agreeable. Quietly jingling his soldier’s spurs, he walked backwards and forwards across the squeaking floor, glancing at Denisov sleeping with his head tucked under the blanket. He wanted to talk. Denisov coughed and turned over. Rostov went up to him and tugged on the blanket.

      “Time to get up, Denisov! It’s time!” he shouted.

      Out from under the blanket popped a dark, hirsute, shaggy head with red cheeks and glittering pitch-black eyes.

      “Time!” shouted Denisov. “What time? Time to get the hell out of this … kingdom of salami. Such bad luck! Such bad luck! It started the moment you left. I was cleaned wight out yesterday, bwother, like a weal son of a bitch! Hey there, some tea!”

      Denisov leapt up on brown naked legs that were covered with black hairs as dense as a monkey’s, and he screwed up his face, as if smiling, to display short, strong teeth, while with both hands he tousled his thick black hair and moustache, which were as curly and tangled as a forest. It was clear from Denisov’s first words that he was feeling down-at-heart, that his body was weakened by wine and sleepless nights, and his cheery manner was not an expression of his feelings, but merely a habit.

      “What devil made me go to that wat’s place” (the officer was nicknamed “the rat”) said Denisov, rubbing his forehead and face with both hands. “Can you believe that yesterday, after you left, he didn’t give me a single card, not one, not even one card,” Denisov went on, raising his voice to a shout and turning completely crimson in his excitement.

      Denisov was one of those people who had his blood let regularly twice a year and who were called hot-headed.

      “Now, that’s enough, it’s all over now,” said Rostov, noticing that Denisov was about to fly into a passion at the mere memory of his bad luck. “Let’s have some tea instead.”

      It was clear that Rostov had not yet grown accustomed to his position and he found it pleasant to speak so familiarly to such an old person. But Denisov was already getting carried away, his eyes turned bloodshot, he took the lighted pipe held out to him, squeezed it in his fist, struck it against the floor, scattering sparks, and carried on shouting.

      “No, it’s such devilish bad luck I have – he gives you the singles, then beats you on the doubles, gives you the singles, then beats you on the doubles.”

      He scattered sparks and broke the pipe, tossed it away and threatened the orderly with his hand. But by the time Rostov began speaking a moment later, the fit of fury had already passed.

      “And I had such a glorious ride. We went past that park, where the teacher’s daughter is, remember?” said Rostov, blushing and smiling.

      “That’s young blood for you,” said Denisov, speaking calmly now, grabbing the cadet’s hand and shaking it. “The youth is blushing, it’s quite wepulsive …”

      “I saw her again …”

      “Wight then, brother, clearly I’ll have to set about the fair sex – I’ve no money, that’s enough gambling for me. Nikita, my fwiend, give me my purse,” he said to the orderly whom he had almost struck. “Right then. What a blockhead, damn it! Where’s that you’re wummaging? Under the pillow! Wight, thank you, dear fellow,” he said, taking the purse and tipping several gold coins out on to the table. “Squadwon money, fowage money, it’s all here,” he said. “There must be forty-five of fowage money alone. Ah no, why bother counting! It won’t fix me up.”

      He pushed the gold coins aside.

      “Never mind, take some from me,” said Rostov.

      “If they don’t bwing the pay on Sunday, things’ll be weally bad,” said Denisov, not answering him.

      “Well take some from me,” said Rostov, blushing in the way that young men always do when it is a matter of money. The vague thought flashed through his mind that Denisov was already in his debt, together with the thought that Denisov was insulting him by not accepting his offer.

      Denisov’s face fell and became sad.

      “I tell you what! You take Bedouin fwom me,” he said seriously, after thinking for a moment. “I paid one and a half thousand for him in Russia myself, I’ll let you have him for the same price. Nothing is sacred except the sabre. Take him! Let’s shake hands on it …”

      “I won’t, not for anything. The finest horse in the regiment,” said Rostov, blushing furiously again.

      Bedouin really was a fine horse, and Rostov would have very much liked to own him, but he felt ashamed to admit it to Denisov. He felt as if he were to blame for having money. Denisov fell silent and again began tousling his hair thoughtfully.

      “Hey, who’s there?” he said, turning towards the door on hearing the footfalls of thick boots with jingling spurs and a short, respectful cough.

      “The sergeant-major,” said Nikita. Denisov frowned even more darkly.

      “That’s weally bad,” he said. “Wostov, my dear fellow, count up how much is left there and chuck the purse under my pillow,” he said, going out to the sergeant-major.

      Rostov, already imagining himself having bought Bedouin and riding him as a cornet at the rear of the squadron, began counting the money, mechanically setting the old and new gold coins apart in equal heaps (there were seven old and sixteen new ones).

      “Ah! Telyanin! Gweetings! They cleaned me out yesterday,” Denisov’s sad voice said in the next room.

      “Where? At Bykov the rat’s place? I knew it,” said another thin voice, and then Lieutenant Telyanin, a foppish little officer from the same squadron, entered the room.

      Rostov tossed the purse under the pillow and shook the moist little hand extended towards him. Before the campaign, Telyanin had for some reason or other been transferred from the Guards. He was disliked in the squadron for his stand-offish manner. Rostov had bought his horse from him.

      “Well now, young cavalryman, how’s my Grachik serving you?” he asked. The lieutenant never looked into the eyes of the person with whom he was talking; his eyes constantly shifted about from one object to another. “I saw you ride past today …”

      “Well enough, a sound mount,” Rostov replied in the serious tone of an experienced cavalryman, even though the horse that he had bought for seven hundred roubles had bad legs and was not worth half that price. “He’s started limping a bit on his left foreleg