Without answering, Rostov, in soldierly fashion, shook the cross of St. George that hung on the cording of his uniform, and pointing to his arm in a sling, he glanced at Berg.
“As you see,” he said.
“To be sure, yes, yes,” said Boris, smiling, “and we have had a capital march here too. You know his Highness kept all the while with our regiment, so that we had every convenience and advantage. In Poland, the receptions, the dinners, the balls！—I can’t tell you. And the Tsarevitch was very gracious to all our officers.” And both the friends began describing; one, the gay revels of the hussars and life at the front; the other, the amenities and advantages of service under the command of royalty.
“Oh, you guards,” said Rostov. “But, I say, send for some wine.”
Boris frowned.
“If you really want some,” he said. And he went to the bedstead, took a purse from under the clean pillows, and ordered some wine. “Oh, and I have a letter and money to give you,” he added.
Rostov took the letter, and flinging the money on the sofa, put both his elbows on the table and began reading it. He read a few lines, and looked wrathfully at Berg. Meeting his eyes, Rostov hid his face with the letter.
“They sent you a decent lot of money, though,” said Berg, looking at the heavy bag, that sank into the sofa. “But we manage to scrape along on our pay, count, I can tell you in my own case. …”
“I say, Berg, my dear fellow,” said Rostov; “when you get a letter from home and meet one of your own people, whom you want to talk everything over with, and I’m on the scene, I’ll clear out at once, so as not to be in your way. Do you hear, be off, please, anywhere, anywhere … to the devil！” he cried, and immediately seizing him by the shoulder, and looking affectionately into his face, evidently to soften the rudeness of his words, he added： “you know, you’re not angry, my dear fellow, I speak straight from the heart to an old friend like you.”
“Why, of course, count, I quite understand,” said Berg, getting up and speaking in his deep voice.
“You might go and see the people of the house; they did invite you,” added Boris.
Berg put on a spotless clean coat, brushed his lovelocks upwards before the looking-glass, in the fashion worn by the Tsar Alexander Pavlovitch, and having assured himself from Rostov’s expression that his coat had been observed, he went out of the room with a bland smile.
“Ah, what a beast I am, though,” said Rostov, as he read the letter.
“Oh, why？”
“Ah, what a pig I’ve been, never once to have written and to have given them such a fright. Ah, what a pig I am！” he repeated, flushing all at once. “Well, did you send Gavrila for some wine？ That’s right, let’s have some！” said he.
With the letters from his family there had been inserted a letter of recommendation to Prince Bagration, by Anna Mihalovna’s advice, which Countess Rostov had obtained through acquaintances, and had sent to her son, begging him to take it to its address, and to make use of it.
“What nonsense！ Much use to me,” said Rostov, throwing the letter under the table.
“What did you throw that away for？” asked Boris.
“It’s a letter of recommendation of some sort; what the devil do I want with a letter like that！”
“What the devil do you want with it？” said Boris, picking it up and reading the address; “that letter would be of great use to you.”
“I’m not in want of anything, and I’m not going to be an adjutant to anybody.”
“Why not？” asked Boris.
“A lackey’s duty.”
“You are just as much of an idealist as ever, I see,” said Boris, shaking his head.
“And you’re just as much of a diplomat. But that’s not the point. … Come, how are you？” asked Rostov.
“Why, as you see. So far everything’s gone well; but I’ll own I should be very glad to get a post as adjutant, and not to stay in the line.”
“What for？”
“Why, because if once one goes in for a military career, one ought to try to make it as successful a career as one can.”
“Oh, that’s it,” said Rostov, unmistakably thinking of something else. He looked intently and inquiringly into his friend’s eyes, apparently seeking earnestly the solution of some question.
Old Gavrila brought in the wine.
“Shouldn’t we send for Alphonse Karlitch now？” said Boris. “He’ll drink with you, but I can’t.”
“Send for him, send for him. Well, how do you get on with the Teuton？” said Rostov, with a contemptuous smile.
“He’s a very, very nice, honest, and pleasant fellow,” said Boris.
