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

“The hoof cracked! That’s no matter. I’ll teach you, I’ll show you the sort of thing to put on it.”

“Yes, please do,” said Rostov.

“I’ll show you, I’ll show you, it’s not a secret. But you’ll be grateful to me for that horse.”

“Then I’ll have the horse brought round,” said Rostov, anxious to be rid of Telyanin. He went out to order the horse to be brought round.

In the outer room Denisov was squatting on the threshold with a pipe, facing the sergeant, who was giving him some report. On seeing Rostov, Denisov screwed up his eyes, and pointing over his shoulder with his thumb to the room where Telyanin was sitting, he frowned and shook his head with an air of loathing.

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

Rostov shrugged his shoulders as though to say, “Nor do I, but what’s one to do?” And having given his order, he went back to Telyanin.

The latter was still sitting in the same indolent pose in which Rostov had left him, rubbing his little white hands.

“What nasty faces there are in this world!” thought Rostov as he went into the room.

“Well, have you given orders for the horse to be fetched out?” said Telyanin, getting up and looking carelessly about him.

“Yes.”

“Well, you come along yourself. 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’m going to show this young man here how to shoe a horse,” said Telyanin.

They went out down the steps and into the stable. The lieutenant showed how to put on the remedy, and went away to his own quarters.

When Rostov went back there was a bottle of vodka and some sausage on the table. Denisov was sitting at the table, and his pen was squeaking over the paper. He looked gloomily into Rostov’s face.

“I am writing to her,” he said. He leaned his elbow on the table with the pen in his hand, and obviously rejoiced at the possibility of saying by word of mouth all he meant to write, he told the contents of his letter to Rostov. “You see, my dear boy,” he said, “we are plunged in slumber, we are the children of dust and ashes, until we love … but love, and you are a god, you are pure, as on the first day of creation.… Who’s that now? Send him to the devil! I’ve no time!” he shouted to Lavrushka, who, not in the slightest daunted, went up to him.

“Why, who should it be? You told him to come yourself. The sergeant has come for the money.”

Denisov frowned, seemed about to shout some reply, but did not speak.