Nikolai Rostov

Nikolai is twenty-four years old. He serves as a lieutenant in a hussar regiment and is the eldest son of Count Rostov, a man of boundless generosity and perpetually empty pockets. Back home in Moscow, there is constant commotion: relatives stay for weeks, his mother sighs over finances, and money is always scarce. Nikolai loves it all dearly, yet finding room to breathe there is hard. He left for the army as an eager boy of eighteen and returned an officer who knows the chill of panic under fire and the humiliation of looking creditors in the eye.

His true elements are simple: the squadron, the stables, the kennels. He remembers every horse by name, loves the autumn hare coursing, lingering suppers after a hard gallop, and the strum of a guitar accompanied by his sister's laughter. Beyond that lie society balls, the English Club, and card debts that make his stomach turn. War has become familiar to him, like a worn saddle and the smell of damp wool.

Nikolai speaks loudly, often cutting himself off and clapping his companion on the shoulder. If stung by frustration, he frowns instantly, snapping, "I don't need your pity." He tunes out philosophical debates about the fate of the world and states plainly that he has no head for highbrow theories. Yet when it comes to night charges, training borzois, or running the family estate, he will argue until the roosters crow.