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Updated: June 20, 2025
In the tavern, before which stood the doctor's covered cart, there were already some five officers. Mary Hendrikhovna, a plump little blonde German, in a dressing jacket and nightcap, was sitting on a broad bench in the front corner. Her husband, the doctor, lay asleep behind her. Rostov and Ilyin, on entering the room, were welcomed with merry shouts and laughter.
He knew that this tale redounded to the glory of our arms and so one had to pretend not to doubt it. And he acted accordingly. "I can't stand this any more," said Ilyin, noticing that Rostov did not relish Zdrzhinski's conversation. "My stockings and shirt... and the water is running on my seat! I'll go and look for shelter. The rain seems less heavy." Ilyin went out and Zdrzhinski rode away.
Sofya Petrovna again stole a glance at Ilyin's face. Ilyin was looking up; he was pale, and was angrily biting his quivering lips. She could not understand why he was angry and why he was indignant, but his pallor touched her. "Don't be angry; let us be friends," she said affectionately. "Agreed? Here's my hand."
At Rostov's suggestion it was agreed that whoever became "King" should have the right to kiss Mary Hendrikhovna's hand, and that the "Booby" should go to refill and reheat the samovar for the doctor when the latter awoke. "Well, but supposing Mary Hendrikhovna is 'King'?" asked Ilyin. "As it is, she is Queen, and her word is law!"
As they left the tavern in the twilight of the dawn, Rostov and Ilyin both glanced under the wet and glistening leather hood of the doctor's cart, from under the apron of which his feet were sticking out, and in the middle of which his wife's nightcap was visible and her sleepy breathing audible. "She really is a dear little thing," said Rostov to Ilyin, who was following him.
"A charming woman!" said Ilyin, with all the gravity of a boy of sixteen. Half an hour later the squadron was lined up on the road. The command was heard to "mount" and the soldiers crossed themselves and mounted.
One of the men came out of the crowd and went up to Rostov. "Who do you belong to?" he asked. "The French," replied Ilyin jestingly, "and here is Napoleon himself" and he pointed to Lavrushka. "Then you are Russians?" the peasant asked again. "And is there a large force of you here?" said another, a short man, coming up. "Very large," answered Rostov. "But why have you collected here?" he added.
Besides, as an old friend you know my attitude to family life and my views as to the sanctity of marriage." Ilyin cleared his throat angrily and heaved a sigh. "Sanctity of marriage . . ." he muttered. "Oh, Lord!" "Yes, yes. . . . I love my husband, I respect him; and in any case I value the peace of my home.
And anxious to prove to herself that she was still a good wife and mother, and that corruption had not yet touched that "sanctity of marriage" of which she had spoken to Ilyin, Sofya Petrovna ran to the kitchen and abused the cook for not having yet laid the table for Andrey Ilyitch.
It was awkward to be silent, and, shrugging her shoulders, she said: So I am to blame, it appears." "I don't blame you for your insincerity," sighed Ilyin. "I did not mean that when I spoke of it. . . . Your insincerity is natural and in the order of things. If people agreed together and suddenly became sincere, everything would go to the devil."
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