WAR AND PEACE (Aylmer & Louise Maude's Translation). Leo Tolstoy

wins he comes back early to brag about it, but if he stays out till morning it means he’s lost and will come back in a rage. Will you have coffee?”

      “Yes, bring some.”

      Ten minutes later Lavrushka brought the coffee. “He’s coming!” said he. “Now for trouble!” Rostov looked out of the window and saw Denisov coming home. Denisov was a small man with a red face, sparkling black eyes, and black tousled mustache and hair. He wore an unfastened cloak, wide breeches hanging down in creases, and a crumpled shako on the back of his head. He came up to the porch gloomily, hanging his head.

      “Lavwuska!” he shouted loudly and angrily, “take it off, blockhead!”

      “Well, I am taking it off,” replied Lavrushka’s voice.

      “Ah, you’re up already,” said Denisov, entering the room.

      “Long ago,” answered Rostov, “I have already been for the hay, and have seen Fraulein Mathilde.”

      “Weally! And I’ve been losing, bwother. I lost yesterday like a damned fool!” cried Denisov, not pronouncing his r’s. “Such ill luck! Such ill luck. As soon as you left, it began and went on. Hullo there! Tea!”

      Puckering up his face though smiling, and showing his short strong teeth, he began with stubby fingers of both hands to ruffle up his thick tangled black hair.

      “And what devil made me go to that wat?” (an officer nicknamed “the rat”) he said, rubbing his forehead and whole face with both hands. “Just fancy, he didn’t let me win a single cahd, not one cahd.”

      He took the lighted pipe that was offered to him, gripped it in his fist, and tapped it on the floor, making the sparks fly, while he continued to shout.

      “He lets one win the singles and collahs it as soon as one doubles it; gives the singles and snatches the doubles!”

      He scattered the burning tobacco, smashed the pipe, and threw it away. Then he remained silent for a while, and all at once looked cheerfully with his glittering, black eyes at Rostov.

      “If at least we had some women here; but there’s nothing foh one to do but dwink. If we could only get to fighting soon. Hullo, who’s there?” he said, turning to the door as he heard a tread of heavy boots and the clinking of spurs that came to a stop, and a respectful cough.

      “The squadron quartermaster!” said Lavrushka.

      Denisov’s face puckered still more.

      “Wetched!” he muttered, throwing down a purse with some gold in it. “Wostov, deah fellow, just see how much there is left and shove the purse undah the pillow,” he said, and went out to the quartermaster.

      Rostov took the money and, mechanically arranging the old and new coins in separate piles, began counting them.

      “Ah! Telyanin! How d’ye do? They plucked me last night,” came Denisov’s voice from the next room.

      “Where? At Bykov’s, at the rat’s… I knew it,” replied a piping voice, and Lieutenant Telyanin, a small officer of the same squadron, entered the room.

      Rostov thrust the purse under the pillow and shook the damp little hand which was offered him. Telyanin for some reason had been transferred from the Guards just before this campaign. He behaved very well in the regiment but was not liked; Rostov especially detested him and was unable to overcome or conceal his groundless antipathy to the man.

      “Well, young cavalryman, how is my Rook behaving?” he asked. (Rook was a young horse Telyanin had sold to Rostov.)

      The lieutenant never looked the man he was speaking to straight in the face; his eyes continually wandered from one object to another.

      “I saw you riding this morning…” he added.

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

      “The hoof’s cracked! That’s nothing. I’ll teach you what to do and show you what kind of rivet to use.”

      “Yes, please do,” said Rostov.

      “I’ll show you, I’ll show you! It’s not a secret. And it’s a horse you’ll thank me for.”

      “Then I’ll have it brought round,” said Rostov wishing to avoid Telyanin, and he went out to give the order.

      In the passage Denisov, with a pipe, was squatting on the threshold facing the quartermaster who was reporting to him. On seeing Rostov, Denisov screwed up his face and pointing over his shoulder with his thumb to the room where Telyanin was sitting, he frowned and gave a shudder of disgust.

      “Ugh! I don’t like that fellow,” he said, regardless of the quartermaster’s presence.

      Rostov shrugged his shoulders as much as to say: “Nor do I, but what’s one to do?” and, having given his order, he returned to Telyanin.

      Telyanin was sitting in the same indolent pose in which Rostov had left him, rubbing his small white hands.

      “Well there certainly are disgusting people,” thought Rostov as he entered.

      “Have you told them to bring the horse?” asked Telyanin, getting up and looking carelessly about him.

      “I have.”

      “Let us go ourselves. 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 want to teach this young man how to shoe a horse,” said Telyanin.

      They went through the porch and into the stable. The lieutenant explained how to rivet the hoof and went away to his own quarters.

      When Rostov went back there was a bottle of vodka and a sausage on the table. Denisov was sitting there scratching with his pen on a sheet of paper. He looked gloomily in Rostov’s face and said: “I am witing to her.”

      He leaned his elbows on the table with his pen in his hand and, evidently glad of a chance to say quicker in words what he wanted to write, told Rostov the contents of his letter.

      “You see, my fwiend,” he said, “we sleep when we don’t love. We are childwen of the dust… but one falls in love and one is a God, one is pua’ as on the first day of cweation… Who’s that now? Send him to the devil, I’m busy!” he shouted to Lavrushka, who went up to him not in the least abashed.

      “Who should it be? You yourself told him to come. It’s the quartermaster for the money.”

      Denisov frowned and was about to shout some reply but stopped.

      “Wetched business,” he muttered to himself. “How much is left in the puhse?” he asked, turning to Rostov.

      “Seven new and three old imperials.”

      “Oh, it’s wetched! Well, what are you standing there for, you sca’cwow? Call the quahtehmasteh,” he shouted to Lavrushka.

      “Please, Denisov, let me lend you some: I have some, you know,” said Rostov, blushing.

      “Don’t like bowwowing from my own fellows, I don’t,” growled Denisov.

      “But if you won’t accept money from me like a comrade, you will offend me. Really I have some,” Rostov repeated.

      “No, I tell you.”

      And Denisov went to the bed to get the purse from under the pillow.

      “Where have you put it, Wostov?”

      “Under the lower pillow.”

      “It’s not there.”

      Denisov threw both pillows on the floor. The purse was not