father, who died of grief. I belong to the province of Smolénsk.”
“Ah? You’re Pwince Bolkónski? Vewy glad to make your acquaintance! I’m Lieutenant Colonel Denísov, better known as ‘Váska,’ ” said Denísov, pressing Prince Andréy’s hand and looking into his face with a particularly kindly attention.
“Yes, I heard,” said he sympathetically, and after a short pause added: “Yes, it’s Scythian warfare. It’s all vewy well—only not for those who get it in the neck. So you are Pwince Andwew Bolkónski?”
He swayed his head. “Vewy pleased, Pwince, to make your acquaintance!” he repeated again, smiling sadly, and he again pressed Prince Andréy’s hand.
Prince Andréy knew Denísov from what Natásha had told him of her first suitor. This memory carried him sadly and sweetly back to those painful feelings of which he had not thought lately, but which still found place in his soul. Of late he had received so many new and very serious impressions—such as the retreat from Smolénsk, his visit to Bald Hills, and the recent news of his father’s death—and had experienced so many emotions, that for a long time past those memories had not entered his mind, and now that they did, they did not act on him with nearly their former strength. For Denísov, too, the memories awakened by the name of Bolkónski belonged to a distant, romantic past, when after supper and after Natásha’s singing he had proposed to a little girl of fifteen without realizing what he was doing. He smiled at the recollection of that time and of his love for Natásha, and passed at once to what now interested him passionately and exclusively. This was a plan of campaign he had devised while serving