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“What nonsense! Much I need it!” said Rostv, throwing the letter under the table.

“Why have you thrown that away?” asked Bors.

“It is some letter of recommendation... what the devil do I want it for!”

“Why ‘What the devil’?” said Bors, picking it up and reading the address. “This letter would be of great use to you.”

“I want nothing, and I won’t be anyone’s adjutant.”

“Why not?” inquired Bors.

“It’s a lackey’s job!”

“You are still the same dreamer, I see,” remarked Bors, shaking his head.

“And you’re still the same diplomatist! But that’s not the point... Come, how are you?” asked Rostv.

“Well, as you see. So far everything’s all right, but I confess I should much like to be an adjutant and not remain at the front.”

“Why?”

“Because when once a man starts on military service, he should try to make as successful a career of it as possible.”

“Oh, that’s it!” said Rostv, evidently thinking of something else.

He looked intently and inquiringly into his friend’s eyes, evidently trying in vain to find the answer to some question.

Old Gabriel brought in the wine.

“Shouldn’t we now send for Berg?” asked Bors. “He would drink with you. I can’t.”

“Well, send for him... and how do you get on with that German?” asked Rostv, with a contemptuous smile.

“He is a very, very nice, honest, and pleasant fellow,” answered Bors.

Again Rostv looked intently into Bors’ eyes and sighed. Berg returned, and over the bottle of wine conversation between the three officers became animated. The Guardsmen told Rostv of their march and how they had been made much of in Russia, Poland, and abroad. They spoke of the sayings and doings of their commander, the Grand Duke, and told stories of his kindness and irascibility. Berg, as usual, kept silent when the subject did not relate to himself, but in connection with the stories of the Grand Duke’s quick temper he related with gusto how in Galicia he had managed to deal with the Grand Duke when the latter made a tour of the regiments and was annoyed at the irregularity of a movement. With a pleasant smile Berg related how the Grand Duke had ridden up to him in a violent passion, shouting: “Arnauts!” (“Arnauts” was the Tsarvich’s favorite expression when he was in a rage) and called for the company commander.

“Would you believe it, Count, I was not at all alarmed, because I knew I was right. Without boasting, you know, I may say that I know the Army Orders by heart and know the Regulations as well as I do the Lord’s Prayer. So, Count, there never is any negligence in my company, and so my conscience was at ease. I came forward....” (Berg stood up and showed how he presented himself, with his hand to his cap, and really it would have been difficult for a face to express greater respect and self-complacency than his did.) “Well, he stormed at me, as the saying is, stormed and stormed and stormed! It was not a matter of life but rather of death, as the saying is. ‘Albanians!’ and ‘devils!’ and ‘To Siberia!’” said Berg with a sagacious smile. “I knew I was in the right so I kept silent; was not that best, Count?... ‘Hey, are you dumb?’ he shouted. Still I remained silent. And what do you think, Count? The next day it was not even mentioned in the Orders of the Day. That’s what keeping one’s head means. That’s the way, Count,” said Berg, lighting his pipe and emitting rings of smoke.

“Yes, that was fine,” said Rostv, smiling.

But Bors noticed that he was preparing to make fun of Berg, and skillfully changed the subject. He asked him to tell them how and where he got his wound. This pleased Rostv and he began talking about it, and as he went on became more and more animated. He told them of his Schn Grabern affair, just as those who have taken part in a battle generally do describe it, that is, as they would like it to have been, as they have heard it described by others, and as sounds well, but not at all as it really was. Rostv was a truthful young man and would on no account have told a deliberate lie. He began his story meaning to tell everything just as it happened, but imperceptibly, involuntarily, and inevitably he lapsed into falsehood. If he had told the truth to his hearers—who like himself had often heard stories of attacks and had formed a definite idea of what an attack was and were expecting to hear just such a story—they would either not have believed him or, still worse, would have thought that Rostv was himself to blame since what generally happens to the narrators of cavalry attacks had not happened to him. He could not tell them simply that everyone went at a trot and that he fell off his horse and sprained his arm and then ran as hard as he could from a Frenchman into the wood. Besides, to tell everything as it really happened, it would have been necessary to make an effort of will to tell only what happened. It is very difficult to tell the truth, and young people are rarely capable of it. His hearers expected a story of how beside himself and all aflame with excitement, he had flown like a storm at the square, cut his way in, slashed right and left, how his saber had tasted flesh and he had fallen exhausted, and so on. And so he told them all that.

In the middle of his story, just as he was saying: “You cannot imagine what a strange frenzy one experiences during an attack,” Prince Andrew, whom Bors was expecting, entered the room. Prince Andrew, who liked to help young men, was flattered by being asked for his assistance and being well disposed toward Bors, who had managed to please him the day before, he wished to do what the young man wanted. Having been sent with papers from Kutzov to the Tsarvich, he looked in on Bors, hoping to find him alone. When he came in and saw an hussar of the line recounting his military exploits (Prince Andrew could not endure that sort of man), he gave Bors a pleasant smile, frowned as with half-closed eyes he looked at Rostv, bowed slightly and wearily, and sat down languidly on the sofa: he felt it unpleasant to have dropped in on bad company. Rostv flushed up on noticing this, but he did not care, this was a mere stranger. Glancing, however, at Bors, he saw that he too seemed ashamed of the hussar of the line.

In spite of Prince Andrew’s disagreeable, ironical tone, in spite of the contempt with which Rostv, from his fighting army point of view, regarded all these little adjutants on the staff of whom the newcomer was evidently one, Rostv felt confused, blushed, and became silent. Bors inquired what news there might be on the staff, and what, without indiscretion, one might ask about our plans.