“A lackey’s duty.”

“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.

Rostov looked intently into Boris’s face once more and he sighed. Berg came back, and over the bottle the conversation between the three officers became livelier. The guardsmen told Rostov about their march and how they had been fêted in Russia, in Poland, and abroad. They talked of the sayings and doings of their commander, the Grand Duke, and told anecdotes of his kind-heartedness and his irascibility. Berg was silent, as he always was, when the subject did not concern him personally, but à propos of the irascibility of the Grand Duke he related with gusto how he had had some words with the Grand Duke in Galicia, when his Highness had inspected the regiments and had flown into a rage over some irregularity in their movements. With a bland smile on his face he described how the Grand Duke had ridden up to him in a violent rage, shouting “Arnauts!” (“Arnauts” was the Tsarevitch’s favourite term of abuse when he was in a passion), and how he had asked for the captain. “Would you believe me, count, I wasn’t in the least alarmed, because I knew I was right. Without boasting, you know, count, I may say I know all the regimental drill-book by heart, and the standing orders, too, I know as I know ‘Our Father that art in Heaven.’ And so that’s how it is, count, there’s never the slightest detail neglected in my company. So my conscience was at ease. I came forward.” (Berg stood up and mimicked how he had come forward with his hand to the beak of his cap. It would certainly have been difficult to imagine more respectfulness and more self-complacency in a face.) “Well, he scolded, and scolded, and rated at me, and shouted his ‘Arnauts,’ and damns, and ‘to Siberia,’ ” said Berg, with a subtle smile. “I knew I was right, and so I didn’t speak; how could I, count? ‘Why are you dumb?’ he shouted. Still I held my tongue, and what do you think, count? Next day there was nothing about it in the orders of the day; that’s what comes of keeping one’s head. Yes, indeed, count,” said Berg, pulling at his pipe and letting off rings of smoke.